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 assistance to make out my rebus: 
Which I don’t think so fair; leave it off for the future;
When the combat is equal, this God 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 damn’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 bluster 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 shine 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 shillings 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.