The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 53

THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

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 pa.s.sion 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 s.e.x 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 la.s.s, 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 perperam argumentaris.--_Scott._]

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S

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 a.s.sistance to make out my rebus: Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future; When the combat is equal, this G.o.d 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 d.a.m.n'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 bl.u.s.ter 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 s.h.i.+ne 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.

THE DEAN TO 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 s.h.i.+llings 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 G.o.ddess Melpomene, pride of her s.e.x, 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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.

TO DR. SHERIDAN[1]

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.