brew, sick. 
My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick,
And look’d like a rake, who was made in the stews sick: 
But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick: 
And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick: 
For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick,
And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick. 
Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick;
But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick,
And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick. 
So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick;
You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick;
So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.

[Footnote 1:  This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a specimen of those bagatelles for which the Dean hath perhaps been too severely censured.—­H.]

[Footnote 2:  Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and Natural Philosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath, Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as “the most eminent physician in this city and kingdom.”  He was one of the brilliant literary coterie in Dublin at that period.  He died in 1738.—­W.  E. B..]

[Footnote 3:  St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia’s day was usually performed.—­F.]

[Footnote 4:  Vide Grattan, inter Belchamp and Clonshogh.—­Dublin Edition.]

TO DR. SHERIDAN

Nov. 23, at night.

If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick. 
This night I came home with a very cold dew sick,
And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick;
But I hope I shall ne’er be like you, of a shrew sick,
Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

DR. HELSHAM’S ANSWER

The Doctor’s first rhyme would make any Jew sick: 
I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick,
For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick,
Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick: 
Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick’s did spew sick: 
And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick,
The surgeon who bled her his lancet out drew sick,
And stopp’d the distemper, as being but new sick. 
The yacht, the last storm, had all her whole crew sick;
Had we two been there, it would have made me and you sick: 
A lady that long’d, is by eating of glue sick;
Did you ever know one in a very good Q sick? 
I’m told that my wife is by winding a clew sick;
The doctors have made her by rhyme[1] and by rue sick. 
  There’s a gamester in town, for a throw that he threw sick,
And yet the whole trade of his dice he’ll pursue sick;
I’ve known an old miser for paying his due sick;
At present I’m grown by a pinch of my shoe sick,
And what would you have me with verses to do sick? 
Send rhymes, and I’ll send you some others in lieu sick. 
        Of rhymes I have plenty,
        And therefore send twenty.