Yes; you call'd my Mafter a Knave: Fie, Mr. She ridan, 'tis a Shame For a Parson, who shou'd know better Things, to come out with fuch a Name: Knave in your Teeth, Mr. Sheridan, 'tis both a Shame and a Sin, And the Dean, my Master, is an honester Man than you and all your Kin: He has more Goodness in his little Finger, than you have in your whole Body, My Master is a parsonable Man, and not a spindlefhank'd Hoddy-daddy. ! 1 And now whereby I find you would fain make an Excufe, Because my Master one Day, in Anger, call'd you Goose. Which, and I am fure I have been his Servant four Years fince October, And he never call'd me worse than Sweet-heart drunk or fober: Not that I know his Reverence was ever concern'd to my Knowledge, Tho' you and your Come-rogues keep him out fo late in your wicked College. You You fay you will eat Grafs on his Grave; a Chriftian eat Grafs! Whereby you now confefs your felf to be a Goofe or an Afs: But that's as much as to fay, that my Mafter should die before ye; Well, well, that's as God pleafes, and I don't believe that's a true Story, And fo fay I told you fo, and you may go tell my Master; what care I 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 Servant, but I think gentle-Folks should be civil. Befides, you found Fault with our Vittels one Day that you was here, I remember it was upon 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 Master's Stocking,) My My Master is fo fond of that Minifter that keeps the School; I thought my Mafter a wife Man, but that Man makes him a Fool. Saunders, faid I, I would rather than a Quart of Ale, He would come into our Kitchin, and I would pin a Dish-clout to his Tail. And now I must go, and get Letter, Saunders to dire& this For I write but a fad Scrawl, but my Sifter Marget fhe writes better. Well, but I must run and make the Bed before my Mafter comes from Pray'rs, And fee now, it ftrikes Tep, and I hear him coming up Stairs: Whereof I cou'd fay more to your Verfes, if I could write written Hand; And fo I remain in a civil Way, your Servant to command, MART PE PETHOX the Great. Written in the Year 1723. ROM Venus born, thy Beauty shows; FR But who thy Father, no Man knows; Nor can the skilful Herald trace The Founder of thy antient Race. The God who made Scamandre boil, And And still the bloody Field frequent, Familiar in each Leader's Tent. The World from joftling Seeds arofe; Which mingling with prolifick Strife So your Production was the fame, And from contending Atoms came. THY fair indulgent Mother crown'd Naples. Bubo, the Owl. BYZAN |