SIR,

THE ANSWER, BY DR. SHERIDAN.

I THANK you for your comedies.

I'll stay and read 'em now at home a-days,
Because Pareus wrote but sorrily

Thy notes, I'll read Lambinus thoroughly;
And then I shall be stoutly set a-gog
To challenge every Irish Pedagogue.
I like your nice epistle critical,

Which does in threefold rhymes so witty fall;
Upon the comic dram' and tragedy

Your notion's right, but verses maggotty;
'Tis but an hour since I heard a man swear it,
The Devil himself could hardly answer it.
As for your friend the sage Euripides,
1I believe you give him now the slip o' days;
But mum for that- -pray come a Saturday
And dine with me, you can't a better day:
I'll give you nothing but a mutton chop,
Some nappy mellow'd ale with rotten hop,
A pint of wine as good as Falern',
Which we poor masters, God knows, all earn;
We'll have a friend or two, sir, at table,
Right honest men, for few're comeatable;
Then when our liquor makes us talkative,
We'll to the fields, and take a walk at eve.
Because I'm troubled much with laziness,
These rhymes I've chosen for their easiness.

1 N.B. You told me you forgot your Greek.

VOL. III.

R

DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT.

1718.

DEAR DEAN, since in cruxes and puns you and I deal,
Pray why is a woman a sieve and a riddle?

'Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning,
In bed as I lay, sir, a-tossing and turning.
You'll find if you read but a few of your histories,
All women, as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle I know you'll be eager,
And make every one of the sex a Belphegor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend them;
I swear without jest I an honour intend them.
In a sieve, sir, their ancient 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 reason I send you these lines of rhymes double, Is purely through pity, to save you the trouble Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last, When your Pegasus canter'd in triple, and rid fast.

As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnassus, With Phoebus's leave, to run with his asses, He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded, While your fiery steed is whipp'd, spurr'd, basti

naded.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER.

In reading your letter alone in my hackney,
Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh.
And when with much labour the matter I crack'd,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.

A woman's no sieve, (for with that you begin,)
Because she lets out more than e'er she 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 sieve, 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, 1was the first man's dam-
nation?

If your worship will please to explain me this rebus,
I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus.
From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11, 1718,
past 12 at noon.

DR. SHERIDAN'S REPLY TO THE DEAN.

DON'T think these few lines which I send, a re

proach,

From my Muse in a car, to your Muse in a coach.
The great god of poems delights in a car,
Which makes him so bright that we see him from far;

A damsel, i. e. Adam's Hell.---H. Vir Gin.---Dub.Ed.

For, were he mew'd up in a coach, 'tis allow'd We'd see him no more than we see through a cloud. You know to apply this-I do not disparage Your lines, but I say they're the worse for the carriage.

I

Now first you deny that a woman's a sieve;

say that she is: What reason d'ye give?

Because she lets out more than she takes in.

Is't that you advance for't? you are still to begin.
Your major and minor I both can refute,

I'll teach you hereafter with whom to dispute.
A sieve keeps in half, deny't if you can.

D. "Adzucks, I mistook it, who thought of the

bran ?"

I tell you in short, sir, you1 should have a pair o'

stocks

For thinking to palm on your friend such a paradox. Indeed, I confess, at the close you grew better, But you light from your coach when you finish'd your letter.

Your thing which you say wants interpretation, What's name for a maiden-the first man's damna

tion?

A damsel-Adam's hell-ay, there I have hit it, Just as you conceived it, just so have I writ it. Since this I've discover'd, I'll make you to know it, That now I'm your Phœbus, and you are my poet. But if you interpret the two lines that follow,

Begging pardon for the expression to a

the church.---S.

dignitary of

I'll again be your poet, and you my Apollo.
Why a noble lord's dog, and my school-house this

PERHAPS you may wonder, I send you so soon
Another epistle; consider 'tis noon.

For all his acquaintance well know that friend Tom is,
Whenever he makes one, as good as his promise.
Now Phoebus exalted, sits high on his throne,
Dividing the heav'ns, dividing my crown,
Into poems and business, my skull's split in two,
One side for the lawyers, and t'other for you.
With my left eye, I see you
sit snug in your stall,
With my right I'm attending the lawyers that scrawl.
With my left I behold your bellower a cur chase;
With my right I'm a-reading my deeds for a purchase.
My left ear's attending the hymns of the choir,
My right ear is stunn'd with the noise of the crier.
My right hand's inditing these lines to your re-

verence,