The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 52

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 a.s.sured, 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.]

THE ANSWER, BY DR. SHERIDAN

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 notion's 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 Sat.u.r.day 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, G.o.d 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.]

DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT 1718

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 s.e.x 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 t.i.tle.

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 Parna.s.sus, With Phoebus's leave, to run with his a.s.ses, He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded, While your fiery steed is whipp'd, spurr'd, bastinaded.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER

In reading your letter alone in my hackney, Your d.a.m.nable 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 d.a.m.nation?

If your wors.h.i.+p 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 h.e.l.l_.--_H._ Vir Gin.--_Dublin Edition._]

DR. SHERIDAN'S REPLY TO THE DEAN

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 G.o.d 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 d.a.m.nation?

A damsel--Adam's h.e.l.l--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 n.o.ble 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 repet.i.tion day.

[Footnote 1: Begging pardon for the expression to a dignitary of thechurch.--_S._]

TO THE SAME. BY DR. SHERIDAN

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.