SWIFT TO SHERIDAN,

IN REPLY.

Toм, for a goose you keep but base quills,
They're fit for nothing else but pasquils.
I've often heard it from the wise,
That inflammations in the eyes

Will quickly fall upon the tongue,

And thence, as famed John Bunyan sung, From out the pen will presently

On paper dribble daintily.

Suppose I call'd you goose, it is hard
One word should stick thus in your gizzard.
You're my goose, and no other man's;
And you know, all my geese are swans:
Only one scurvy thing I find,

Swans sing when dying, geese when blind.
But now I smoke where lies the slander,-
I call'd you goose instead of gander;
For that, dear Tom, ne'er fret and vex,
I'm sure you cackle like the sex.
I know the gander always goes
With a quill stuck across his nose:
So your eternal pen is still
Or in your claw, or in your bill.

But whether you can tread or hatch,
I've something else to do than watch.
As for your writing I am dead,
I leave it for the second head.

Deanry-House, Oct. 27, 1718.

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT.

and strain,

I CAN'T but wonder, Mr. Dean,
To see you live, so often slain.
My arrows fly and fly in vain,
But still I try and try again.
I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein ;
Don't think, like you, I squeeze
Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean ;
I will not tell, because it's plain.
Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane;
If so, from pen and ink refrain.
Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain
For her and you; your life's a scene
Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane,
Enough to crack the strongest brain.
Now to conclude, I do remain,

Your honest friend,

TOM SHERIDAN.

SWIFT TO SHERIDAN.

POOR Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance, Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance. You're so retrograde, sure you were born under

Cancer;

[answer?

Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an

If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye, And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury,

'I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk ; I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk: Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding,

I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.

MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER,

TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723.

WELL, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head!

You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.

[your cloth; I'm sure such words does not become a man of

I would not give such language to a dog, faith and [dan! 'tis a shame

troth.

Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. SheriFor a parson who should know better things, to come out with such 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 personable man, and not a spindleshank'd hoddy doddy.

[excuse, And now, whereby I find you would fain make an Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you [years since October, Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four

a goose:

And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, [to my knowledge, Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd

drunk or sober:

Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked college.

You say you will eat grass on his grave:1 a Christian eat grass! [or an ass: Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose But that's as much as to say, that my master should [lieve that's a true story: Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't beAnd so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I?

die before ye;

And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and

shame the devil;

[be civil. I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here;

[year. I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking:

1 See p. 290.

Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;)

My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school

I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool.

Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail. [this letter; And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better.

Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers:

And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs;

Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand;

And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to

command,

A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE.

MARY.

COME sit by my side, while this picture I draw:
In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw;
A temper the devil himself could not bridle;
Impertinent mixture of busy and idle;
As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed;