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 Condé 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.

Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift was an Anglo-Irish satirist, essayist, political pamphleteer, poet and cleric who became Dean of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. Swift is remembered for works such as "A Tale of a Tub" (1704), "An Argument Against Abolishing Christianity" (1712), and "Gulliver's Travels" (1726). Swift originally published all of his works under pseudonyms—such as Lemuel Gulliver, Isaac Bickerstaff, Drapier's Letters as MB Drapier—and works were sometimes attributed to Anonymous.

Jonathan Swift

Prologue, To A Play For The Benefit Of The Distressed Weavers. By Dr. Sheridan. Spoken By Mr. Elrington. 1721

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Epilogue To A Benefit Play, Given In Behalf Of The Distressed Weavers.

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Ode On Science

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

The Answer. By Dr. Swift

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

English

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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 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 ...

Jonathan Swift

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 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...

Jonathan Swift

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, 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.

Jonathan Swift

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 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

Jonathan Swift

To The Dean Of St. Patrick's

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 m...

Jonathan Swift

To The Dean Of St. Patrick's In Answer To His Left-Handed Letter

Since your poetic prancer is turn'd into Cancer,
I'll tell you at once, sir, I'm now not your man, sir;
For pray, sir, what pleasure in fighting is found
With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground?
When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran back;
But I found out the way to your den by its track:
From thence the black monster I drew, o' my conscience,
And so brought to light what before was stark nonsense.
When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue,
You turn'd to your left, and you writ like a Jew;
Which, good Mister Dean, I can't think so fair,
Therefore turn about to the right, as you were;
Then if with true courage your ground you maintain,
My fame is immortal, when Jonathan's slain:
Who's greater by far than great Alexander,
As much as a teal surpa...

Jonathan Swift