But we can fly where'er we please,
O'er cities, rivers, hills, and seas:
From east to west the world we roam,
And in all climates are at home;

With care provide you as we go

With sunshine, rain, and hail, or snow.
You, when it rains, like fools, believe
Jove pisses on you through a sieve :
An idle tale, 'tis no such matter;

We only dip a sponge in water,

Then squeeze it close between our thumbs,
And shake it well, and down it comes;
As you shall to your sorrow know;

We'll watch your steps where'er you go; since we find you walk a-foot,

And,
We'll soundly souse your frieze surtout.
"Tis but by our peculiar grace,

That Phoebus ever shows his face;
For, when we please, we open wide
Our curtains blue from side to side;
And then how saucily he shows
His brazen face and fiery nose ;
And gives himself a haughty air,
As if he made the weather fair!
'Tis sung, wherever Celia treads,
The violets ope their purple heads;
The roses blow, the cowslip springs;
'Tis sung; but we know better things.
"Tis true, a woman on her mettle
Will often piss upon a nettle ;

But though we own she makes it wetter,
The nettle never thrives the better;
While we, by soft prolific showers,
Can every spring produce you flowers.

Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning,
Compare her radiant eyes to lightning;
And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd,
That lightning comes but from a cloud.
But gods like us have too much sense
At poets' flights to take offence;
Nor can hyperboles demean us;

Each drab has been compared to Venus.
We own your verses are melodious ;
But such comparisons are odious.
[Observe the case-I state it thus:
Though you compare your trull to us,
But think how damnably you err
When you compare us clouds to her;
From whence you draw such bold conclusions;
But poets love profuse allusions.

And, if you now so little spare us,

Who knows how soon you may compare us

To Chartres, Walpole, or a king,

If once we let you have your swing.
Such wicked insolence appears

Offensive to all pious ears.

To flatter women by a metaphor!

What profit could you hope to get of her?
And, for her sake, turn base detractor
Against your greatest benefactor.

But we shall keep revenge in store
If ever you provoke us more:

For, since we know you walk a-foot,
We'll soundly drench your frieze surtout;
Or may we never thunder throw,
Nor souse to death a birth-day beau.
We own your verses are melodious;
But such comparisons are odious.]

AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS.'
TO DR. HELSHAM.2

SIR,

Nov. 23, at night, 1731.

WHEN I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice I'm so full of pity I never abuse sick; [sick; And the patientest patient ever you knew sick; Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew

sick.

I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick : She mended at first, but now she's anew sick. Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick.

This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a specimen of those bagatelles for which the Dean hath perhaps been too severely censured.---H.

2 Richard Helsham, M. D., Professor of Physic and Natural Philosophy in the University of Dublin. See the preface to Delany on Polygamy.---N.

Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick.

Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick? [sick, Lady Santry got out of the church' when she grew And as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick. Miss Morice was (I can assure you 'tis true) sick: For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick? Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick, Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick. Nor is old Nanny Shales, whene'er she does brew, [sick,

sick.

My footman came home from the church of a bruise And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick:

But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick:

And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick: For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue

sick,

And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick.

Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick; But there was not a dozen (to give them their due)

sick,

And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick.

1 St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia's day was usually performed.---F.

2 Vide Grattan, inter Belchamp and Clonshogh.--Dub. ed.

So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze

screw, sick;

and they

[sick;

You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.

TO DR. SHERIDAN.

Nov. 23, at night.

IF I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick. This night I came home with a very cold dew sick, And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick; But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick,. Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER.

THE Doctor's first rhyme would make any Jew sick:
I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick,
For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick,
Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick:
Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick's did spew sick:
And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick,
The surgeon
who bled her his lancet out drew sick,
And stopp'd the distemper, as being but new sick.
The yacht,the last storm, had all her whole crew sick;
Had we two been there, it would have made me
and you sick :