Volume Ii Part 53 (1/2)

THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

SIR, I cannot but think that we live in a bad age, _O tempora, O mores!_ as 'tis in the adage.

My foot was but just set out from my cathedral, When into my hands comes a letter from the droll.

I can't pray in quiet for you and your verses; But now let us hear what the Muse from your car says.

Hum--excellent good--your anger was stirr'd; Well, punners and rhymers must have the last word.

But let me advise you, when next I hear from you, To leave off this pa.s.sion which does not become you; For we who debate on a subject important, Must argue with calmness, or else will come short on't.

For myself, I protest, I care not a fiddle, For a riddle and sieve, or a sieve and a riddle; And think of the s.e.x as you please, I'd as lieve You call them a riddle, as call them a sieve.

Yet still you are out, (though to vex you I'm loth,) For I'll prove it impossible they can be both; A school-boy knows this, for it plainly appears That a sieve dissolves riddles by help of the shears; For you can't but have heard of a trick among wizards, To break open riddles with shears or with scissars.

Think again of the sieve, and I'll hold you a wager, You'll dare not to question my minor or major.[1]

A sieve keeps half in, and therefore, no doubt, Like a woman, keeps in less than it lets out.

Why sure, Mr. Poet, your head got a-jar, By riding this morning too long in your car: And I wish your few friends, when they next see your cargo, For the sake of your senses would lay an embargo.

You threaten the stocks; I say you are scurrilous And you durst not talk thus, if I saw you at our ale-house.

But as for your threats, you may do what you can I despise any poet that truckled to Dan But keep a good tongue, or you'll find to your smart From rhyming in cars, you may swing in a cart.

You found out my rebus with very much modesty; But thanks to the lady; I'm sure she's too good to ye: Till she lent you her help, you were in a fine twitter; You hit it, you say;--you're a delicate hitter.

How could you forget so ungratefully a la.s.s, And if you be my Phoebus, pray who was your Pallas?

As for your new rebus, or riddle, or crux, I will either explain, or repay it by trucks; Though your lords, and your dogs, and your catches, methinks, Are harder than ever were put by the Sphinx.

And thus I am fully revenged for your late tricks, Which is all at present from the DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S.

From my closet, Sept, 12, 1718, just 12 at noon.

[Footnote 1: Ut tu perperam argumentaris.--_Scott._]

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

SIR, Your Billingsgate Muse methinks does begin With much greater noise than a conjugal din.

A pox of her bawling, her _tempora et mores!_ What are times now to me; a'nt I one of the Tories?

You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers; Oh, oh, Mr. Dean, are you there with your bears?

You pray, I suppose, like a Heathen, to Phoebus, To give his a.s.sistance to make out my rebus: Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future; When the combat is equal, this G.o.d should be neuter.

I'm now at the tavern, where I drink all I can, To write with more spirit; I'll drink no more Helicon; For Helicon is water, and water is weak; 'Tis wine on the gross lee, that makes your Muse speak.

This I know by her spirit and life; but I think She's much in the wrong to scold in her drink.

Her d.a.m.n'd pointed tongue pierced almost to my heart; Tell me of a cart,--tell me of a ----, I'd have you to tell on both sides her ears, If she comes to my house, that I'll kick her down stairs: Then home she shall limping go, squalling out, O my knee; You shall soon have a crutch to buy for your Melpomene.

You may come as her bully, to bl.u.s.ter and swagger; But my ink is my poison, my pen is my dagger: Stand off, I desire, and mark what I say to you, If you come I will make your Apollo s.h.i.+ne through you.

Don't think, sir, I fear a Dean, as I would fear a dun; Which is all at present from yours, THOMAS SHERIDAN.

THE DEAN TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

SIR, When I saw you to-day, as I went with Lord Anglesey, Lord, said I, who's that parson, how awkwardly dangles he!