Volume Ii Part 52 (1/2)

Poets, in those days, used 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 censured 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 a.s.sured, 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?

[Footnote 1: N.B.--The Strand in London. The fact may not be true; but the rhyme cost me some trouble.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 2: The Maypole. See ”The Dunciad,” ii, 28. Pope's ”Works,”

Elwin and Courthope, vol. iv.]

THE ANSWER, BY DR. SHERIDAN

Sir,

I thank you for your comedies.

I'll stay and read 'em now at home a-days, Because Parcus wrote but sorrily Thy notes, I'll read Lambinus thoroughly; And then I shall be stoutly set a-gog To challenge every Irish Pedagogue.

I like your nice epistle critical, Which does in threefold rhymes so witty fall; Upon the comic dram' and tragedy Your notion's right, but verses maggotty; 'Tis but an hour since I heard a man swear it, The Devil himself could hardly answer it.

As for your friend the sage Euripides, I[1] believe you give him now the slip o' days; But mum for that--pray come a Sat.u.r.day And dine with me, you can't a better day: I'll give you nothing but a mutton chop, Some nappy mellow'd ale with rotten hop, A pint of wine as good as Falern', Which we poor masters, G.o.d knows, all earn; We'll have a friend or two, sir, at table, Right honest men, for few're comeatable; Then when our liquor makes us talkative, We'll to the fields, and take a walk at eve.

Because I'm troubled much with laziness, These rhymes I've chosen for their easiness.

[Footnote 1: N.B.--You told me you forgot your Greek.]

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 s.e.x 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 t.i.tle.

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 Parna.s.sus, With Phoebus's leave, to run with his a.s.ses, He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded, While your fiery steed is whipp'd, spurr'd, bastinaded.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER

In reading your letter alone in my hackney, Your d.a.m.nable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh.

And when with much labour the matter I crack'd, 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.