Volume Ii Part 58 (1/2)

Those loads of paint upon your toilet Will never mend your face, but spoil it, It looks as if you did parboil it: Drink claret.

Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean, That they're like Cynthia in the wane, Or breast of goose when 'tis pick'd clean, or pullet:

See what by drinking you have done: You've made your phiz a skeleton, From the long distance of your crown, t' your gullet.

A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME

Wearied with saying grace and prayer, I hasten'd down to country air, To read your answer, and prepare reply to't:

But your fair lines so grossly flatter, Pray do they praise me or bespatter?

I must suspect you mean the latter-- Ah! slyboot!

It must be so! what else, alas!

Can mean by culling of a face, And all that stuff of toilet, gla.s.s, and box-comb?

But be't as 'twill, this you must grant, That you're a daub, whilst I but paint; Then which of us two is the quaint- er c.o.xcomb?

I value not your jokes of noose, Your gibes and all your foul abuse, More than the dirt beneath my shoes, nor fear it.

Yet one thing vexes me, I own, Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone; To be called lean by a skeleton, who'd bear it?

'Tis true, indeed, to curry friends, You seem to praise, to make amends, And yet, before your stanza ends, you flout me,

'Bout latent charms beneath my clothes, For every one that knows me, knows That I have nothing like my nose about me:

I pa.s.s now where you fleer and laugh, 'Cause I call Dan my better half!

O there you think you have me safe!

But hold, sir;

Is not a penny often found To be much greater than a pound!

By your good leave, my most profound and bold sir, Dan's n.o.ble metal, Sherry base; So Dan's the better, though the less, An ounce of gold's worth ten of bra.s.s, dull pedant!

As to your spelling, let me see, If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry, Good spelling-master: your crany has lead in't.

ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME

Three days for answer I have waited, I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated poetaster?

Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose Of thy dimension's fit for prose; But every one that knows Dan, knows thy master.

Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines, And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1]