nostra est conditio, hæc nostra querela. Proh Deûm atque hominum fidem! quare illi, cui ne libella nummi est, dentes, stomachum, viscera concessit natura? mehercule, nostro ludibrium debens corpori, frustra laboravit a patre voluntario exilio, qui macrum ligone macriorem reddit agellum. Huc usque evasi, ad te, quasi ad asylum, confugiens, quem nisi bene nôssem succurrere potuisse, mehercule, neque fores vestras pultûssem, neque limina tetigissem. Quàm longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens, despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymæ rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In viâ nullum fuit solatium præterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne turdos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Mæcenatis convivium, ita me picturâ pascens inani, sæpius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musarum sacra fames? Hæc omnia, quæ nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires; nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale.

Vivitur parvo malè, sed canebat

Flaccus ut parvo benè: quod negamus:
Pinguis et lautè saturatus ille

Ridet inanes.

Pace sic dicam liceat poetæ

Nobilis læti salibus faceti

Usque jocundi, lepidè jocantis

Non sine curâ.

Quis potest versus, (meditans merendam,
Prandium, cœnam) numerare? quis non
Quot panes pistor locat in fenestrâ
Dicere mallet?

Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus;
Latrat ingenti stomachus furore;

Quæso digneris renovare fauces,

Docte Patrone.

Vestiant lanæ tenues libellos,

Vestiant panni dominum trementem,

Edibus vestris trepidante pennâ

Musa propinquat.

Nuda ne fiat, renovare vestes

Urget, et nunquam tibi sic molestam

Esse promittit, nisi sit coacta

Frigore iniquo.

Si modo possem! Vetat heu pudor me
Plura, sed præstat rogitare plura,
An dabis binos digitos crumenæ im-

ponere vestræ ?

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S.

DEAR SIR, Since you in humble wise
Have made a recantation,

From your low bended knees arise;
I hate such poor prostration.

'Tis bravery that moves the brave, As one nail drives another;

If

you from me would mercy have,
Pray, Sir, be such another.

You that so long maintain'd the field

With true poetic vigour;

Now you lay down your pen and yield,
You make a wretched figure.'

Submit, but do't with sword in hand,
And write a panegyric

Upon the man you cannot stand;
I'll have it done in lyric:

That all the boys I teach may sing

2

The achievements of their Chiron ;'

What conquests my stern looks can bring

Without the help of iron.

A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen,

From magazine of standish

Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean,

Than any sword we brandish.

My ink's my flash, my pen's my bolt;
Whene'er I please to thunder,
I'll make you tremble like a colt,
And thus I'll keep you under.

THOMAS SHERIDAN.

A leg awry.---Scott.

2 A fair open for you.---Scott.

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S.

DEAR DEAN, I'm in a sad condition,
I cannot see to read or write;
Pity the darkness of thy Priscian,

Whose days are all transform'd to night.

My head, though light, 's a dungeon grown, The windows of my soul are closed; Therefore to sleep I lay me down,

My verse and I are both composed.

Sleep, did I say? that cannot be;

For who can sleep, that wants his eyes? My bed is useless then to me,

Therefore I lay me down to rise.

Unnumber'd thoughts pass to and fro
Upon the surface of my brain;
In various maze they come and go,
And come and go again.

So have you seen in sheet burnt black,
The fiery sparks at random run;
Now here, now there, some turning back,

Some ending where they just begun.

THOMAS SHERIDAN.

AN ANSWER, BY DELANY,

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN.

DEAR SHERRY, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded

sore eye,

And the more I consider your case, still the more I
Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye.
Besides, the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye,
In pity cry out, "He's a poor blinded Tory."
But listen to me, and I'll soon lay before ye

A sovereign cure well attested in Gory.

First wash it with ros, that makes dative rori,
Then send for three leeches, and let them all gore ye;
Then take a cordial dram to restore ye,

Then take Lady Judith, and walk a fine boree,
Then take a glass of good claret ex more,
Then stay as long as yon can ab uxore;

And then if friend Dick' will but ope your backdoor, he

Will quickly dispel the black clouds that hang o'er ye, And make you so bright, that you'll sing tory rory, And make a new ballad worth ten of John Dory: (Though I work your cure, yet he'll get the glory.) I'm now in the back school-house, high up one story, Quite weary with teaching, and ready to mori. My candle's just out too, no longer I'll pore ye, But away to Clem Barry's,—there's an end of my story.

1 Dr. Richard Helsham.-Scott.