The torrent merciless imbibes Commiffions, perquifites, and bribes; The Reverend Dr. SHERIDAN to J. S. D. D. D. S. P. D. DE Written in the Year 1712. EAR dean, fince in cruxes and puns you and I deal, Pray why is a woman a fieve and a riddle? 'Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning, In bed as I lay, Sir, a toffing and turning. You'll find, if you read but a few of your histories, All women as Eve, all women are myfteries. To find out this riddle I know you'll be " eager, And make every one of the fex a Belphegor. Jonathan Swift, doctor of divinity, dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin. But that will not do, for I mean to commend 'em : Ifwear without jeft I an honour intend 'em, In a fieve, Sir, their antient 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 reafon I fend you thefe lines of rhymes double Is purely through pity to fave you the trouble Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did laft; When your pegafus canter'd in triple, and rid faft. As for my little nag, which I keep at With Phoebus's leave, to run with his affes, す The Dean's anfwer, ་་་ Dean Dean SWIFT's Anfwer to the Reverend Dr. SHERIDAN. SIR, IN N reading your letter alone in my hackney, Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh. And when with much labour the matter I crackt, I found you mistaken in matter of fact, A woman's no fieve (for with that you begin) Because the lets out more than e'er fhe 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 fieve, 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 ? Vir Gin, Man-Trap, If If your worship will please to explain me this rebus, I fwear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus. From my hackney-coach, Sept. II, 1712, past 12 at noon. THE FAGGO T. Written in the Year 1713, when the queen's minifters were quarrelling among themselves.* BSERVE the dying father fpeak: Try, lads, can you this bundle break; Then bids the youngest of the fix, Take up a well-bound heap of fticks. They thought it was an old man's maggot; And ftrove by turns to break the faggot: In vain: the complicated wands Were much too ftrong for all their hands. See, faid the fire, how foon 'tis done: Then took and broke them one by one. So ftrong you'll be, in friendship ty'd; So quickly broke if See more of the author's endeavours to procure a reconcilement among them, in Mr. Pope's Profe Works, you divide. Vol. II. Letter ii, v. etc. See also Free thoughts on the trefent fate of affairs, Vol. IV. of this collection. Keep Keep close then, boys, and never quarrel. Here ends the fable and the moral. This tale may be apply'd in few words To treasurers, comptrollers, ftewards, And others, who, in folemn fort, Appear with flender wands at court: Not firmly join'd to keep their ground, But lashing one another round: While wife men think they ought to fight With quarter-ftaves, inftead of white; Or constable, with staff of peace, Should come and make the clatt'ring ceafe; Which now disturbs the queen and court, And gives the whigs and rabble fport. In history we never found, The confuls fafces * were unbound; Fafces, a bundle of rods or small sticks carried before the confuls at Rome. Come, |