My left is indenting for me and heirs ever-hence. Although in myself I'm divided in two,

Dear Dean, I shall ne'er be divided from you.

SIR,

THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN.

I CANNOT but think that we live in a bad age,
O tempora, O mores! as 'tis in the adage.
My foot was but just set out from my cathedral,
When into my hands comes a letter from the droll.
I can't pray in quiet for you and your verses;
But now let us hear what the Muse from your car
says.

Hum-excellent good-your anger was stirr'd; Well, punners and rhymers must have the last word. But let me advise you, when next I hear from you, To leave off this passion which does not become you; For we who debate on a subject important,

Must

argue with calmness, or else will come short
on't.

For myself, I protest, I care not a fiddle,
For a riddle and sieve, or a sieve and a riddle e;
And think of the sex as you please, I'd as lieve
You call them a riddle, as call them a sieve.
Yet still you are out, (though to vex you I'm loth,)
For I'll prove it impossible they can be both;
A school-boy knows this, for it plainly appears

That a sieve dissolves riddles by help of the shears; For you can't but have heard of a trick among wizards,

To break open riddles with shears or with scissars.

Think again of the sieve, and I'll hold you a wager, You'll dare not to question my minor or major.' A sieve keeps half in, and therefore, no doubt, Like a woman, keeps in less than it lets out. Why sure, Mr. Poet, your head got a-jar, By riding this morning too long in your car: And I wish your few friends, when they next see your cargo,

For the sake of your senses would lay an embargo. You threaten the stocks; I say you are scurrilous, And you durst not talk thus, if I saw you at our ale-house.

But as for your threats, you may do what you can,
I despise any poet that truckled to Dan.

But keep a good tongue, or you'll find to your smart,
From rhyming in cars, you may swing in a cart.
You found out my rebus with very much modesty;
But thanks to the lady; I'm sure she's too good to ye:
Till she lent you her help, you were in a fine twitter;
You hit it, you say;-you're a delicate hitter.
How could you forget so ungratefully a lass,
And if you be my Phoebus, pray who was your Pallas?
As for your new rebus, or riddle, or crux,
I will either explain, or repay it by trucks;

Ut tu perperam argumentaris.---Scott.

Though your lords, and your dogs, and your catches,

methinks,

Are harder than ever were put by the Sphinx.

And thus I am fully revenged for your late tricks, Which is all at present from the

DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S.

From my closet, Sept. 12, 1718,

just 12 at noon.

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S.

SIR,

YOUR Billingsgate Muse methinks does begin
With much greater noise than a conjugal din.

A
pox of her bawling, her tempora et mores !
What are times now to me! a'nt I one of the Tories?
You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers;

Oh, oh, Mr. Dean, are you
there with your
bears?
You pray, I suppose, like a Heathen, to Phœbus,
To give his assistance to make out my rebus :
Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future;
When the combat is equal, this God should be neuter.
I'm now at the tavern, where I drink all I can,
To write with more spirit; I'll drink no more Helicon;
For Helicon is water, and water is weak;

'Tis wine on the gross lee, that makes your Muse speak.

This I know by her spirit and life; but I think

She's much in the wrong to scold in her drink.

Her damn'd pointed tongue pierced almost to my

heart;

Tell me of a cart,-tell me of a

I'd have you to tell on both sides her ears,

If she comes to my house, that I'll kick her down

stairs :

Then home she shall limping go, squalling out, O

my knee;

You shall soon have a crutch to buy for

[pomene. Mel

your

swagger;

You may come as her bully, to bluster and
But my ink is my poison, my pen is my dagger:
Stand off, I desire, and mark what I say to you,
If you come I will make your Apollo shine through

you.

Don't think, sir, I fear a Dean, as I would fear a dun; Which is all at present from yours,

THOMAS SHERIDAN.

THE DEAN TO THOMAS SHERIDAN.

SIR,

WHEN I saw you to-day, as I went with Lord

Anglesey,

Lord, said I, who's that parson, how awkwardly dangles he!

When whip you trot up, without minding your

betters,

To the very coach side, and threaten your letters. Is the poison [and dagger] you boast in your

jaws, trow?

Are you still in your cart with convitia ex plaustro? But to scold is your trade, which I soon should be foil'd in,

For scolding is just quasi diceres-school-din :
And I think I may say, you could many good shil-
lings get,
[Billingsgate;
Were you drest like a bawd, and sold oysters at
But coach it or cart it, I'd have you know, sirrah,
I'll write, though I'm forced to write in a wheel-
barrow;

Nay, hector and swagger, you'll still find me stanch,
And
you and your cart shall give me carte blanche.
Since you write in a cart, keep it tecta et sarta,
'Tis all you have for it; 'tis your best Magna Carta;
And I love you so well, as I told you long ago,
That I'll ne'er give my vote for Delenda Cart-ago.
Now you write from your cellar, I find out your art,
You rhyme as folks fence, in tierce and in cart:
Your ink is your poison,' your pen is what not;
Your ink is your drink, your pen is your pot.
To my goddess Melpomene, pride of her sex,
I gave, as you beg, your most humble respects:
The rest of your compliment I dare not tell her,
For she never descends so low as the cellar;
But before you can put yourself under her banners,
She declares from her throne you must learn better

manners.

If once in

your cellar my

Phoebus should shine,

1 Viz. ut tu prædicas.-Scott.

2 Viz. ut ego assero verius.-Ibid.