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MARY THE COOK-MAID'S

LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723.

WELL, if ever I saw such another man fince my mother bound my head!

You a gentleman! marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.

I'm fure fuch words do not become a man of

cloth;

your

I would not give fuch language to a dog, faith and

troth.

Yes, you

call'd my

mafter a knave: fie, Mr. She

ridan! 'tis a fhame

For a parfon, who fhould know better things, to come out with fuch a name.

Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a fhame and a fin;

And the Dean my mafter is an honefter man than

you and all

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He has more goodnefs in his little finger than you have in your whole body:

My mafter is a parfonable man, and not a spindlefhank'd hoddy-doddy.

And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excufe,

Because my mafter one day, in anger, call'd you goofe :

Which, and I am fure I have been his fervant four years fince October,

And he never call'd me worfe than fweet-heart,

drunk or fober:

Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge,

Though you and your come-rogues keep him out fo late in your college.

You fay you will eat grafs on his grave: a chriftian eat grafs !

Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an afs:

But that's as much as to fay, that my mafter should die before ye;

Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true ftory:

And fo fay I told you fo, and you may go tell my mafter; what care I?

And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. Every body knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil;

I am but a poor fervant; but I think gentlefolks fhould be civil.

Befides, you

found fault with our victuals one day

that you was here;.

I remember it was on a Tuesday of all days in the

year.

And Saunders the man fays you are always jefting and mocking:

Mary, faid he, (one day as I was mending my mafter's ftocking;)

My master is fo fond of that minister that keeps the fchool

I thought my master a wife man, but that man makes

him a fool.

Saunders,

Saunders, faid I, I would rather than a quart of ale He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a difh-clout to his tail.

And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter;

For I write but a fad fcrawl; but my fifter Marget, the writes better.

Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my mafter comes from prayers;

And fee now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up ftairs;

Whereof I could fay more to your verfes, if I could write written hand:

And so I remain, in a civil way, your fervant to command,

MARY.

A NEW-YEAR'S-GIFT

FOR BEC*. 1723-4.

RETURNING Janus now prepares,

For Bec, a new fupply of cares,

Sent in a bag to Doctor Swift,

Who thus difplays the New-year's gift.

Firft, this large parcel brings you tidings

Of our good Dean's eternal chidings;
Of Nelly's pertnefs, Robin's leafings,
And Sheridan's perpetual teazings.
This box is cramm'd on every fide
With Stella's magifterial pride.

Mrs. Dingley, Stella's friend and companion.
VOL. VII.

T

Behold

Behold a cage with fparrows fill'd,
First to be fondled, then be kill'd.
Now to this hamper I invite you,
With fix imagin'd cares to fright you.
Here in this bundle Janus fends
Concerns by thousands for your friends:
And here's a pair of leathern pokes,
To hold your cares for other folks.
Here from this barrel you may broach
A peck of troubles for a coach.

This ball of wax your ears will darken,
Still to be curious, never hearken.

Left you the town may have lefs trouble in,
Bring all

your Quilca's * cares to Dublin,

For which he fends this empty fack;

And so take all upon your back.

DINGLEY AND BRENT.

A S ON G.

To the tune of, "Ye Commons and Peers."

DINGLEY and Brent,

Wherever they went,

Ne'er minded a word that was fpoken;
Whatever was faid,

They ne'er troubled their head,
But laugh'd at their own filly joking.

*Country-house of Dr. Sheridan.

+ Dr. Swift's houfe-keeper.

Should

Should Solomon wife

In majesty rise,

And fhew them his wit and his learning;

"

They never would hear,

But turn the deaf ear,

As a matter they had no concern in.

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Comes Dingley, and asks you, what was it?

And, curious to know,

Away she will go

To feek an old rag in the closet.

TO STELLA. 1723-4.

Written on the DAY of her BIRTH, but not on the SUBJECT When I was SICK in BED.

TORMENTED with ineeffant pains,
Can I devise poetic strains?

Time was, when I could yearly pay
My verfe on Stella's native day:
But now, unable grown to write,
I grieve she ever faw the light.
Ungrateful! fince to her I owe
That I these pains can undergo.
She tends me like an humble flave;
And, when indecently I rave,
When out my brutish paffions break,

With gall in every

word I fpeak,

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