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 gla.s.s of good claret _ex more_, Then stay as long as you can _ab uxore_; And then if friend d.i.c.k[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]--there's an end of my story.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]

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

A REPLY, BY SHERIDAN, TO DELANY

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, there's 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 wh.o.r.e.

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.]

ANOTHER REPLY, BY SHERIDAN

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 Conde 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.

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

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, d.i.c.k[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 talpa 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 bene nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus: Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abunda, Nec Phoebe fili versum quis[2] mittere Ryly.

Quid tibi c.u.m libris? relavet tua lumina Tybris[3]

Mixtus Saturno;[4] penso sed parce diurno Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu.

Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt.

Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, mi 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.]

SWIFT TO SHERIDAN, IN REPLY

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 s.e.x.

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.

AN ANSWER BY SHERIDAN

Perlegi versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos; Perlepidos quidem; scribendo semper es idem.

Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo; Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria praebes, Ne minus insanae reparas quoque d.a.m.na Dianae, Quae me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit) Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto Lodicem binum premit, atque negat mihi vinum.

O terra et coelum! quam redit pectus anhelum.

Os mihi jam sicc.u.m, liceat mihi bibere dic c.u.m?

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, quam dulces risus queis pectora mulces, Pangitur a Flacco, c.u.m pectus turget Iaccho: Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe; Nempe jocosa propago, haesit sic vocis imago.

TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718

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 a.s.ses.