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For as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime,
Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme.
If you had not took physic, I'd pay off your bacon,
But now I'll write short, for fear you're short-taken.
Besides, Dick * forbid me, and call'd me a fool;
For he says, short as 'tis, it will give you a stool.
In libris bellis, tu parum parcis ocellis;
Dum nimium scribis, vel talpâ cæcior ibis,
Aut ad vina redis, nam sic tua lumina lædis:
Sed tibi cœnanti sunt collyria tanti ?

Nunquid eges visu, dum comples omnia risu?
Heu Sheridan cocus, heu eris nunc cercopithecus.
Nunc bene nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus:
Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abunde,
Nec Phœbi fili versum quis † mittere Ryly.
Quid tibi cum libris? relavet tua lumina Tybrist
Mixtus Saturno §; penso sed parcè diurno
Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu.
Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt.
Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes
Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, mi bone, lynces.
Culum oculum tergis, dum scripta hoc flumine
mergis;

Tunc oculi et nates, ni fallor, agent tibi grates.
Vim fuge Decani, nec sit tibi cura Delani:
Heu tibi si scribant, aut si tibi fercula libant,
Pone loco mortis, rapis fera pocula fortis.

Hæc tibi pauca dedi, sed consule Betty my Lady,
Huic te des solæ, nec egebis pharmacopolæ.
Hæc somnians cecini,

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AN ANSWER, BY SHERIDAN. *

PERLEGI versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos; Perlepidos quidèm; scribendo semper es idem. Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo; Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria præbes, Ne minus insanæ reparas quoque damna Dianæ, Quæ me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit) Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto Lodicum binum permit, et negatis mihi vinum. O terra et cœlum ! quàm redit pectus anhelum. Os mihi jam siccum, liceat mihi bibere dic cum? Ex vestro grato poculo, tam sæpe prolato, Vina crepant: sales ostendet quis mihi tales? Lumina, vos sperno, dum cuppæ gaudia cerno: Perdere etenim pellem nostram, quoque crura mavellem.

Amphora, quàm dulces risus queis pectora mulces, Pangitur a Flacco, cum pectus turget Iaccho: Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe; Nempe jocosa propago, hesit sic vocis imago.

TO DR SHERIDAN. 1718.

WHATE'ER your predecessors taught us,
I have a great esteem for Plautus ;

And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence

* Whimsical Medley, p. 365.

But as to comic Aristophanes,

The rogue too vicious and too profane is.

I went in vain to look for Eupolis

Down in the strand †, just where the New Pole is
For I can tell you one thing, that I can,

You will not find it in the Vatican.
He and Cratinus us'd, as Horace says,
To take his greatest grandees for asses.
Poets, in those days, us'd to venture high;
But these are lost full many a century.
Thus you may see, dear friend, ex pede hence,
My judgment of the old comedians.

Proceed to tragics: first, Euripides
(An author where I sometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly censur'd by the Stagirite,
Who says, his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author despises
So much, he swears the very best piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's;
And that a woman in these tragedies,
Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is.
At least, I'm well assur'd, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
But, above all, I prefer Eschylus,

Whose moving touches, when they please kill us.
And now I find my Muse but ill able,

To hold out longer in trissyllable.

I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye?

* Bawdy.-Dubl. Ed.

;

+ N. B. The Strand in London. The fact may not be true; but the rhyme cost me some trouble.-SWIFT.

DR SHERIDAN TO DR SWIFT. 1718.

DEAR DEAN, Since in cruxes and puns you and I deal,

Pray why is a woman a sieve and a riddle?

'Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning,

In bed as I lay, Sir, a tossing and turning.

You'll find if you read but a few of your histories,
All women, as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle I know you'll be eager,
And make every one of the sex a Belphegor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend them:
I swear without jest I an honour intend them.
In a sieve, Sir, their ancient extraction I quite tell,
In a riddle I give you their power and their title.
This I told you before; do you know what I mean,

Sir?

"Not I, by my troth, Sir."-Then read it again, Sir,
The reason I send you these lines of rhymes double
Is purely through pity, to save you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last,
When your Pegasus canter'd in triple, and rid fast.
As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnassus,
With Phoebus's leave, to run with his asses,
He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded,
While your fiery steed is whipped, spurr'd, basti-
naded.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER.

In reading your letter alone in my hackney,
Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh.
And when with much labour the matter I crack't,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.

A woman's no sieve (for with that you begin)
Because she lets out more than e'er she takes in.
And that she's a riddle can never be right,
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light.
But grant her a sieve, I can say something archer;
Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher.
Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation,
What name for a maid, * was the first man's
damnation ?

If your worship will please to explain me this rebus, I swear from henceforward you shall be my Pho

bus.

From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11, 1718, past 12 at noon.

DR SHERIDAN'S REPLY TO THE DEAN,

DON'T think these few lines which I send, a reproach,

From

my muse in a car, to your muse in a coach.

* A damsel, i. e. Adam's Hell.-H. Vir Gin.-Dubl. Ed.

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