The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 2

     REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR,

     I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school,
     in the lower end of St. Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a
     Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood
     less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself: therefore I
     made bold to send you the enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may
     qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if
     you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one
     to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane.
       I am yours,
          Reverend Sir, to command,
      PAT. REYLY.

     Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.
     HOR., Epist. II, i, 117

     Delicif, Sheridan, Musarum, dulcis amice,
     Sic tibi propitius Permessi ad flumen Apollo
     Occurrat, seu te mimum convivia rident,
     Aequivocosque sales spargis, seu ludere versu
     Malles; dic, Sheridan, quisnam fuit ille deorum,
     Quae melior natura orto tibi tradidit artem
     Rimandi genium puerorum, atque ima cerebri
     Scrutandi? Tibi nascenti ad cunabula Pallas
     Astitit; et dixit, mentis praesaga futurae,
     Heu, puer infelix! nostro sub sidere natus;
     Nam tu pectus eris sine corpore, corporis umbra;
     Sed levitate umbram superabis, voce cicadam:
     Musca femur, palmas tibi mus dedit, ardea crura.
     Corpore sed tenui tibi quod natura negavit,
     Hoc animi dotes supplebunt; teque docente,
     Nec longum tempus, surget tibi docta juventus,
     Artibus egregiis animas instructa novellas.
     Grex hinc Paeonius venit, ecce, salutifer orbi;
     Ast, illi causas orant: his insula visa est
     Divinam capiti nodo constringere mitram.
       Natalis te horae non fallunt signa, sed usque
     Conscius, expedias puero seu laetus Apollo
     Nascenti arrisit; sive ilium frigidus horror
     Saturni premit, aut septem inflavere triones.
       Quin tu alth penitusque latentia semina cernis
     Quaeque diu obtundendo olim sub luminis auras
     Erumpent, promis; quo ritu saeph puella
     Sub cinere hesterno sopitos suscitat ignes.
       Te dominum agnoscit quocunque sub akre natus:
     Quos indulgentis nimium custodia matris
     Pessundat: nam saeph vides in stipite matrem.
       Aureus at ramus, venerandae dona Sibyllae,
     Aeneae sedes tantym patefecit Avernas;
     Saeph puer, tua quem tetigit semel aurea virga,
     Et coelum, terrasque videt, noctemque profundam.

     Ad te, doctissime Delany,
     Pulsus ` foribus Decani,
     Confugiens edo querelam,
     Pauper petens clientelam.
     Petebam Swift doctum patronum,
     Sed ille dedit nullum donum,
     Neque cibum neque bonum.
     Quaeris qu`m malh sit stomacho num?
     Iratus valdh valdh latrat,
     Crumenicidam fermh patrat:
     Quin ergo releves aegrotum,
     Dato cibum, dato potum.
     Ita in utrumvis oculum,
     Dormiam bibens vestrum poculum.

     Quaeso, Reverende Vir, digneris hanc epistolam inclusam cum versiculis
     perlegere, quam cum fastidio abjecit et respuebat Decanus ille (inquam)
     lepidissimus et Musarum et Apollinis comes.

     Reverende Vir,

     De vestrb benignitate et clementib in frigore et fame exanimatos, nisi
     persuasum esset nobis, hanc epistolam reverentiae vestrae non
     scripsissem; quam profectr, quoniam eo es ingenio, in optimam accipere
     partem nullus dubito. Saevit Boreas, mugiunt procellae, dentibus invitis
     maxillae bellum gerunt. Nec minus, intestino depraeliantibus tumultu
     visceribus, classicum sonat venter. Ea nostra est conditio, haec nostra
     querela. Proh De{m 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 ntssem succurrere potuisse,
     mehercule, neque fores vestras pult{ssem, neque limina tetigissem. Qu`m
     longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens,
     despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymae rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In
     vib nullum fuit solatium praeterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne
     turdos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Maecenatis convivium, ita me picturb
     pascens inani, saepius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musarum
     sacra fames? Haec omnia, quae nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires;
     nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale.

     Vivitur parvo malh, sed canebat
     Flaccus ut parvo benh: quod negamus:
     Pinguis et lauth saturatus ille
         Ridet inanes.

     Pace sic dicam liceat poetae
     Nobilis laeti salibus faceti
     Usque jocundi, lepidh jocantis
         Non sine curb.

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

     Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus;
     Latrat ingenti stomachus furore;
     Quaeso digneris renovare fauces,
         Docte Patrone.

     Vestiant lanae tenues libellos,
     Vestiant panni dominum trementem,
     Aedibus vestris trepidante pennb
         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 praestat rogitare plura,
     An dabis binos digitos crumenae im-
         ponere vestrae?

     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
       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 inks my flash, my pens 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.

     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.

     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 you can ab uxore;
     And then if friend Dick[1] will but ope your back-door, 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,[2]—theres an end of my story.

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]

     [Footnote 2: See "The Country Life," i, 140.]

     I like your collyrium,
     Take my eyes, sir, and clear ye 'um,
       'Twill gain you a great reputation;
     By this you may rise,
     Like the doctor so wise,[1]
       Who open'd the eyes of the nation.

     And these, I must tell ye,
     Are bigger than its belly;—
       You know, theres in Livy a story
     Of the hands and the feet
     Denying of meat,—
       Don't I write in the dark like a Tory?

     Your water so far goes,
     'Twould serve for an Argus,
       Were all his whole hundred sore;
     So many we read
     He had in his head,
       Or Ovid's a son of a whore.

     For your recipe, sir,
     May my lids never stir,
       If ever I think once to fee you;
     For I'd have you to know,
     When abroad I can go,
       That it's honour enough, if I see you.

     [Footnote 1: Probably Dr. Davenant.]

     My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise
     Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes;
     As the Dean of St. Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies!
     I cannot lie down, but immediately rise,
     To answer your stuff and the Doctor's likewise.
     Like a horse with a gall, I'm pester'd with flies,
     But his head and his tail new succour supplies,
     To beat off the vermin from back, rump, and thighs.
     The wing of a goose before me now lies,
     Which is both shield and sword for such weak enemies.
     Whoever opposes me, certainly dies,
     Though he were as valiant as Condi or Guise.
     The women disturb me a-crying of pies,
     With a voice twice as loud as a horse when he neighs.
     By this, Sir, you find, should we rhyme for a prize,
     That I'd gain cloth of gold, when you'd scarce merit frize.

     Dear Tom, I'm surprised that your verse did not jingle;
     But your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single.
     For, as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime,
     Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme.
     If you had not took physic, I'd pay off your bacon,
     But now I'll write short, for fear you're short-taken.
     Besides, Dick[1] forbid me, and call'd me a fool;
     For he says, short as 'tis, it will give you a stool.
      In libris bellis, tu parum parcis ocellis;
     Dum nimium scribis, vel talpb caecior ibis,
     Aut ad vina redis, nam sic tua lumina laedis:
     Sed tibi coenanti sunt collyria tanti?
     Nunquid eges visu, dum comples omnia risu?
     Heu Sheridan caecus, heu eris nunc cercopithecus.
     Nunc benh nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus:
     Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abund`,
     Nec Phoebe fili versum quns[2] mittere Ryly.
       Quid tibi cum libris? relavet tua lumina Tybris[3]
     Mixtus Saturno;[4] penso sed parch diurno
     Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu.
     Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt.
     Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes
     Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, mn bone, lynces.
     Culum oculum tergis, dum scripta hoc flumine mergis;
     Tunc oculi et nates, ni fallor, agent tibi grates.
     Vim fuge Decani, nec sit tibi cura Delani:
     Heu tibi si scribant, aut si tibi fercula libant,
     Pone loco mortis, rapis fera pocula fortis
     Haec tibi pauca dedi, sed consule Betty my Lady,
     Huic te des solae, nec egebis pharmacopolae.
         Haec somnians cecini,
                                             JON. SWIFT.

     Oct. 23, 1718.

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]

     [Footnote 2: Pro potes.—Horat.]

     [Footnote 3: Pro quovis fluvio.—Virg.]

     [Footnote 4: Saccharo Saturni.]

     Tom, 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.

     Deanery-House, Oct. 27, 1718.

     Perlegi versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos;
     Perlepidos quidhm; scribendo semper es idem.
     Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo;
     Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria praebes,
     Ne minus insanae reparas quoque damna Dianae,
     Quae me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit)
     Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto
     Lodicem binum premit, atque negat mihi vinum.
     O terra et coelum! qu`m redit pectus anhelum.
     Os mihi jam siccum, liceat mihi bibere dic cum?
     Ex vestro grato poculo, tam saepe prolato,
     Vina crepant: sales ostendet quis mihi tales?
     Lumina, vos sperno, dum cuppae gaudia cerno:
     Perdere etenim pellem nostram, quoque crura mavellem.
       Amphora, qu`m dulces risus queis pectora mulces,
     Pangitur a Flacco, cum pectus turget Iaccho:
     Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe;
     Nempe jocosa propago, haesit sic vocis imago.

     Whate'er your predecessors taught us,
     I have a great esteem for Plautus;
     And think your boys may gather there-hence
     More wit and humour than from Terence;
     But as to comic Aristophanes,
     The rogue too vicious and too profane is.
     I went in vain to look for Eupolis
     Down in the Strand,[1] just where the New Pole[2] is;
     For I can tell you one thing, that I can,
     You will not find it in the Vatican.
     He and Cratinus used, as Horace says,
     To take his greatest grandees for asses.
     Poets, in those days, used to venture high;
     But these are lost full many a century.
     Thus you may see, dear friend, ex pede hence,
     My judgment of the old comedians.
       Proceed to tragics: first Euripides
     (An author where I sometimes dip a-days)
     Is rightly censured by the Stagirite,
     Who says, his numbers do not fadge aright.
     A friend of mine that author despises
     So much he swears the very best piece is,
     For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's;
     And that a woman in these tragedies,
     Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is.
     At least I'm well assured, that no folk lays
     The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
     But, above all, I prefer Eschylus,
     Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us.
       And now I find my Muse but ill able,
     To hold out longer in trissyllable.
     I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
     Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye?

     [Footnote 1: N.B.—The Strand in London. The fact may not be true; but
     the rhyme cost me some trouble.—Swift.]

     [Footnote 2: The Maypole. See "The Dunciad," ii, 28. Pope's "Works,"
     Elwin and Courthope, vol. iv.]

     Sir,

     I thank you for your comedies.
     I'll stay and read 'em now at home a-days,
     Because Parcus 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 notions 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,
     I[1] 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.

     [Footnote 1: N.B.—You told me you forgot your Greek.]

     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, bastinaded.

     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,[1] was the first man's damnation?
     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.

     [Footnote 1: A damsel, i.e., Adam's Hell.—H. Vir Gin.—Dublin
     Edition.]

     Don't think these few lines which I send, a reproach,
     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;
     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.
       Now first you deny that a woman's a sieve;
     I 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, you[1] 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 damnation?
     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 Phoebus, and you are my poet.
     But if you interpret the two lines that follow,
     I'll again be your poet, and you my Apollo.
     Why a noble lord's dog, and my school-house this weather,
     Make up the best catch when they're coupled together?

     From my Ringsend car, Sept. 12, 1718, past 5 in the morning,
     on a repetition day.

     [Footnote 1: Begging pardon for the expression to a dignitary of
     thechurch.—S.]

     12 o'Clock at Noon
     Sept. 12, 1718.

     SIR,
     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 reverence,
     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,
     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;
     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.[1]
     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;
     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.

     [Footnote 1: Ut tu perper`m argumentaris.—Scott.]

     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 Phoebus,
     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 your Melpomene.
     You may come as her bully, to bluster and swagger;
     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.

     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 shillings get,
     Were you drest like a bawd, and sold oysters at Billingsgate;
     But coach it or cart it, I'd have you know, sirrah,
     I'll write, though I'm forced to write in a wheelbarrow;
     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,
     I tell you I'd not give a fig for your wine;
     So I'll leave him behind, for I certainly know it,
     What he ripens above ground, he sours below it.
     But why should we fight thus, my partner so dear
     With three hundred and sixty-five poems a-year?
     Let's quarrel no longer, since Dan and George Rochfort
     Will laugh in their sleeves: I can tell you they watch for't.
     Then George will rejoice, and Dan will sing highday:
     Hoc Ithacus velit, et magni mercentur Atridae.
                                               JON. SWIFT.

     Written, signed, and sealed, five minutes and eleven seconds after the
     receipt of yours, allowing seven seconds for sealing and superscribing,
     from my bed-side, just eleven minutes after eleven, Sept. 15, 1718.

     Erratum in your last, 1. antepenult, pro "fear a Dun" lege "fear a
     Dan:" ita omnes MSS. quos ego legi, et ita magis congruum tam sensui
     quam veritati.

     Dec. 14, 1719, Nine at night.

     SIR,

     It is impossible to know by your letter whether the wine is to be bottled
     to-morrow, or no.

     If it be, or be not, why did not you in plain English tell us so?

     For my part, it was by mere chance I came to sit with the ladies[2] this
     night.

     And if they had not told me there was a letter from you; and your man
     Alexander had not gone, and come back from the deanery; and the boy here
     had not been sent, to let Alexander know I was here, I should have missed
     the letter outright.

     Truly I don't know who's bound to be sending for corks to stop your
     bottles, with a vengeance.

     Make a page of your own age, and send your man Alexander to buy corks;
     for Saunders already has gone above ten jaunts.

     Mrs. Dingley and Mrs. Johnson say, truly they don't care for your wife's
     company, though they like your wine; but they had rather have it at their
     own house to drink in quiet.

     However, they own it is very civil in Mrs. Sheridan to make the offer;
     and they cannot deny it.

     I wish Alexander safe at St. Catherine's to-night, with all my heart and
     soul, upon my word and honour:

     But I think it base in you to send a poor fellow out so late at this time
     of year, when one would not turn out a dog that one valued; I appeal to
     your friend Mr. Connor.

     I would present my humble service to my Lady Mountcashel; but truly I
     thought she would have made advances to have been acquainted with me, as
     she pretended.

     But now I can write no more, for you see plainly my paper is ended.

     1 P.S.

     I wish, when you prated, your letter you'd dated:
     Much plague it created. I scolded and rated;
     My soul is much grated; for your man I long waited.
     I think you are fated, like a bear to be baited:
     Your man is belated: the case I have stated;
     And me you have cheated. My stables unslated.
     Come back t'us well freighted.
     I remember my late head; and wish you translated,
     For teasing me.

     2 P.S.

     Mrs. Dingley desires me singly
     Her service to present you; hopes that will content you;
     But Johnson madam is grown a sad dame,
     For want of your converse, and cannot send one verse.

     3 P.S.

     You keep such a twattling with you and your bottling;
     But I see the sum total, we shall ne'er have a bottle;
     The long and the short, we shall not have a quart,
     I wish you would sign't, that we have a pint.
     For all your colloguing,[3] I'd be glad for a knoggin:[4]
     But I doubt 'tis a sham; you won't give us a dram.
     'Tis of shine a mouth moon-ful, you won't part with a spoonful,
     And I must be nimble, if I can fill my thimble,
     You see I won't stop, till I come to a drop;
     But I doubt the oraculum, is a poor supernaculum;
     Though perhaps you may tell it, for a grace if we smell it.
                                           STELLA.

     [Footnote 1: In this letter, though written in prose, the reader, upon
     examining, will find each second sentence rhymes to the former.—H.]

     [Footnote 2: Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: A phrase used in Ireland for a specious appearance of
     kindness without sincerity.—F.]

     [Footnote 4: A name used in Ireland for the English quartern.—F.]

     I'd have you to know, as sure as you're Dean,
     On Thursday my cask of Obrien I'll drain;
     If my wife is not willing, I say she's a quean;
     And my right to the cellar, egad, I'll maintain
     As bravely as any that fought at Dunblain:
     Go tell her it over and over again.
     I hope, as I ride to the town, it won't rain;
     For, should it, I fear it will cool my hot brain,
     Entirely extinguish my poetic vein;
     And then I should be as stupid as Kain,
     Who preach'd on three heads, though he mention'd but twain.
     Now Wardel's in haste, and begins to complain;
     Your most humble servant, dear Sir, I remain,
            T. S.—N.

     Get Helsham, Walmsley, Delany,
     And some Grattans, if there be any:[1]
     Take care you do not bid too many.

     [Footnote 1: I.e. in Dublin, for they were country clergy.—F.]

     The verses you sent on the bottling your wine
     Were, in every one's judgment, exceedingly fine;
     And I must confess, as a dean and divine,
     I think you inspired by the Muses all nine.
     I nicely examined them every line,
     And the worst of them all like a barn-door did shine;
     O, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine!
     With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine.
     I know they have many a wicked design;
     And, give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine.
     However, I wish, honest comrade of mine,
     You would really on Thursday leave St. Catharine,[1]
     Where I hear you are cramm'd every day like a swine;
     With me you'll no more have a stomach to dine,
     Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine;
     So I wish you were toothless, like Lord Masserine.
     But were you as wicked as lewd Aretine,[2]
     I wish you would tell me which way you incline.
     If when you return your road you don't line,
     On Thursday I'll pay my respects at your shrine,
     Wherever you bend, wherever you twine,
     In square, or in opposite, circle, or trine.
     Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine;
     I hope you have swill'd with new milk from the kine,
     As much as the Liffee's outdone by the Rhine;
     And Dan shall be with us with nose aquiline.
     If you do not come back we shall weep out our eyne;
     Or may your gown never be good Lutherine.
     The beef you have got I hear is a chine;
     But if too many come, your madam will whine;
     And then you may kiss the low end of her spine.
     But enough of this poetry Alexandrine;
     I hope you will not think this a pasquine.

     [Footnote 1: The seat of Lady Mountcashel, near Dublin.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: Pietro Aretino (1492-1557), an Italian poet noted for his
     satirical and licentious verse,—W. E. B.]