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
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 perperam argumentaris.—­Scott.]

TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK’S