and privately instructed Master Putland how to act his part; and at the same time exacted a promise from the child, that no consideration should make him repeat that prologue which he had been taught by Sheridan.  When the play was to be acted, the archbishop attended according to his promise; and Master Putland began Helsham’s prologue, and went through it to the amazement of Sheridan; which fired him to such a degree (although he was one of the best-natured men in the world) that he would have entirely put off the play, had it not been in respect to the archbishop, who was indeed highly complimented in Helsham’s performance.  When the play was over, the archbishop was very desirous to hear Sheridan’s prologue; but all the entreaties of the archbishop, the child’s father, and Sheridan, could not prevail with Master Putland to repeat it, having, he said, promised faithfully that he would not, upon any account whatever; and therefore insisted that he would keep his word.—­F.]

[Footnote 4:  Dr. James Stopford, Bishop of Cloyne.—­F.]

[Footnote 5:  The seat of ——­ Hussay, Esq., in the county of Kildare.—­F.]

TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.

UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VERSES.  BY DR. DELANY IN SHERIDAN’S NAME[1]

Hail, human compound quadrifarious,
Invincible as wight Briareus![2]
Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one,
Stronger than triple-bodied Geryon![3]
O may your vastness deign t’ excuse
The praises of a puny Muse,
Unable, in her utmost flight,
To reach thy huge colossian height! 
T’ attempt to write like thee were frantic,
Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic. 
  Yet let me bless, in humbler strain,
Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian[4] vein,
Pour’d out t’ enrich thy native isle,
As Egypt wont to be with Nile. 
O, how I joy to see thee wander,
In many a winding loose meander,
In circling mazes, smooth and supple,
And ending in a clink quadruple;
Loud, yet agreeable withal,
Like rivers rattling in their fall! 
Thine, sure, is poetry divine,
Where wit and majesty combine;
Where every line, as huge as seven,
If stretch’d in length, would reach to Heaven: 
Here all comparing would be slandering,
The least is more than Alexandrine. 
  Against thy verse Time sees with pain,
He whets his envious scythe in vain;
For though from thee he much may pare,
Yet much thou still wilt have to spare. 
  Thou hast alone the skill to feast
With Roman elegance of taste,
Who hast of rhymes as vast resources
As Pompey’s caterer of courses. 
  O thou, of all the Nine inspired! 
My languid soul, with teaching tired,
How is it raptured, when it thinks
Of thy harmonious set of chinks;
Each answering each in various rhymes,
Like echo to St. Patrick’s chimes! 
  Thy Muse, majestic in her rage,
Moves like Statira[5] on the stage;