A BALLAD
Patrick astore,[1] what news upon the town?
By my soul there's bad news, for the gold she was pull'd down,
The gold she was pull'd down, of that I'm very sure,
For I saw'd them reading upon the towlsel[2] _doore_.
Sing, och, och, hoh, hoh.[3]
Arrah! who was him reading? 'twas _jauntleman_ in ruffles,
And Patrick's bell she was ringing all in muffles;
She was ringing very sorry, her tongue tied up with rag,
Lorsha! and out of her shteeple there was hung a black flag.[4]
Sing, och, &c.
Patrick astore, who was him made this law?
Some they do say, 'twas the big man of straw;[5]
But others they do say, that it was Jug-Joulter,[6]
The devil he may take her into hell and _Boult-her!_
Sing, och, &c.
Musha! Why Parliament wouldn't you maul,
Those _carters_, and paviours, and footmen, and all;[7]
Those rascally paviours who did us undermine,
Och ma ceade millia mollighart[8] on the feeders of swine!
Sing, och, &c.
[Footnote 1: Astore, means my dear, my heart.]
[Footnote 2: The Tholsel, where criminals for the city were tried, and
where proclamations, etc., were posted. It was invariably called the
Touls'el by the lower class.]
[Footnote 3: It would appear that the chorus here introduced, was
intended to chime with the howl, the _ululatus_, or funeral cry, of the
Irish.]
[Footnote 4: Swift, it is said, caused a muffled peal to be rung from the
steeple of St. Patrick's, on the day of the proclamation, and a black
flag to be displayed from its battlements.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 5: The big man of straw, means the Duke of Dorset,
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; he had only the name of authority, the
essential power being vested in the primate.]
[Footnote 6: Jug-Joulter means Primate _Boulter_, whose name is played
upon in the succeeding line. In consequence of the public dissatisfaction
expressed at the lowering the gold coin, the primate became very
unpopular.]
[Footnote 7: "Footmen" alludes to a supporter of the measure, said to
have been the son or grandson of a servant.]
[Footnote 8: Means _"my hundred thousand hearty curses_ on the feeders of
swine."]
A WICKED TREASONABLE LIBEL[1]
While the king and his ministers keep such a pother,
And all about changing one whore for another,
Think I to myself, what need all this strife,
His majesty first had a whore of a wife,
And surely the difference mounts to no more
Than, now he has gotten a wife of a whore.
Now give me your judgment a very nice case on;
Each queen has a son, say which is the base one?
Say which of the two is the right Prince of Wales,
To succeed, when, (God bless him,) his majesty fails;
Perhaps it may puzzle our loyal divines
To unite these two Protestant parallel lines,
From a left-handed wife, and one turn'd out of doors,
Two reputed king's sons, both true sons of whores;
No law can determine it, which is first oars.
But, alas! poor old England, how wilt thou be master'd;
For, take which you please, it must needs be a bastard.
[Footnote 1: So the following very remarkable verses are entitled, in a
copy which exists in the Dean's hand-writing bearing the following
characteristic memorandum on the back: "A traitorous libel, writ several
years ago. It is inconsistent with itself. Copied September 9, 1735. I
wish I knew the author, that I might hang him." And at the bottom of the
paper is subjoined this postscript. "I copied out this wicked paper many
years ago, in hopes to discover the traitor of an author, that I might
inform against him." For the foundation of the scandals current during
the reign of George I, to which the lines allude, see Walpole's
Reminiscences of the Courts of George the first and second, chap, ii, at
p. cii, Walpole's Letters, edit. Cunningham.--_W. E. B._]
EPIGRAMS AGAINST CARTHY
BY SWIFT AND OTHERS
CHARLES CARTHY, a schoolmaster in the city of Dublin, was publisher of a
translation of Horace, in which the Latin was printed on the one side,
and the English on the other, whence he acquired the name of Mezentius,
alluding to the practice of that tyrant, who chained the dead to the
living.
Carthy was almost continually involved in satirical skirmishes with
Dunkin, for whom Swift had a particular friendship, and there is no doubt
that the Dean himself engaged in the warfare.--_Scott_.
ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF HORACE
Containing, on one side, the original Latin, on the other, his own
version.
This I may boast, which few e'er could,
Half of my book at least is good.
ON CARTHY MINOTAURUS
How monstrous Carthy looks with Flaccus braced,
For here we see the man and there the beast.
ON THE SAME
Once Horace fancied from a man,
He was transformed to a swan;[1]
But Carthy, as from him thou learnest,
Has made the man a goose in earnest.
[Footnote 1:
"Jam jam residunt cruribus asperae
Pelles, et album mutor in alitem
Superne, nascunturque leves
Per digitos humerosque plumae."
Lib. ii, Carm. xx.]
ON THE SAME
Talis erat quondam Tithoni splendida conjux,
Effulsit misero sic Dea juncta viro;
Hunc tandem imminuit sensim longaeva senectus,
Te vero extinxit, Carole, prima dies.
IMITATED
So blush'd Aurora with celestial charms,
So bloom'd the goddess in a mortal's arms;
He sunk at length to wasting age a prey,
But thy book perish'd on its natal day.
AD HORATIUM CUM CARTHIO CONSTRICTUM
Lectores ridere jubes dum Carthius astat?
Iste procul depellit olens tibi Maevius omnes:
Sic triviis veneranda diu, Jovis inclyta proles
Terruit, assumpto, mortales, Gorgonis ore.
IMITATED
Could Horace give so sad a monster birth?
Why then in vain he would excite our mirth;
His humour well our laughter might command,
But who can bear the death's head in his hand?
AN IRISH EPIGRAM ON THE SAME
While with the fustian of thy book,
The witty ancient you enrobe,
You make the graceful Horace look
As pitiful as Tom M'Lobe.[1]
Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount,
And Helicon, for if this log
Should stumble once into the fount,
He'll make it muddy as a bog.
[Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become
proverbial.--_Scott._]
ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF LONGINUS
High as Longinus to the stars ascends,
So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.
RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA
Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras,
Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.
ON THE SAME
What Midas touch'd became true gold, but then,
Gold becomes lead touch'd lightly by thy pen.
CARTHY KNOCKED OUT SOME TEETH FROM HIS NEWS-BOY
For saying he could not live by the profits of Carthy's works, as
they did not sell.
I must confess that I was somewhat warm,
I broke his teeth, but where's the mighty harm?
My work he said could ne'er afford him meat,
And teeth are useless where there's nought to eat!
TO CARTHY
On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his
Longinus.
Thus vagrant beggars, to extort
By charity a mean support,
Their sores and putrid ulcers show,
And shock our sense till we bestow.
TO CARTHY
On his accusing Mr. Dunkin for not publishing his book of Poems.
How different from thine is Dunkin's lot!
Thou'rt curst for publishing, and he for not.
ON CARTHY'S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS,
UNDER THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS POETASTERS
So witches bent on bad pursuits,
Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.
TO CARTHY
Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal'd from light,
Piled in a garret, charm'd the author's sight,
But forced from their retirement into day,
The tender embryos half unknown decay;
Thus lamps which burn'd in tombs with silent glare,
Expire when first exposed to open air.
TO CARTHY, ATTRIBUTING SOME PERFORMANCES TO MR. DUNKIN
From the Gentleman's London Magazine for January.
My lines to him you give; to speak your due,
'Tis what no man alive will say of you.
Your works are like old Jacob's speckled goats,
Known by the verse, yet better by the notes.
Pope's essays upon some for Young's may pass,
But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass;
So green in different lights may pass for blue,
But what's dyed black will take no other hue.
UPON CARTHY'S THREATENING TO TRANSLATE PINDAR
You have undone Horace,--what should hinder
Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar?
But ere you mount his fiery steed,
Beware, O Bard, how you proceed:--
For should you give him once the reins,
High up in air he'll turn your brains;
And if you should his fury check,
'Tis ten to one he breaks your neck.
DR. SWIFT WROTE THE FOLLOWING EPIGRAM
On one Delacourt's complimenting Carthy on his Poetry
Carthy, you say, writes well--his genius true,
You pawn your word for him--he'll vouch for you.
So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail,
To cheat the world, become each other's bail.
POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. SHERIDAN
Some ancient authors wisely write,
That he who drinks will wake at night,
Will never fail to lose his rest,
And feel a streightness in his chest;
A streightness in a double sense,
A streightness both of breath and pence:
Physicians say, it is but reasonable,
He that comes home at hour unseasonable,
(Besides a fall and broken shins,
Those smaller judgments for his sins;)
If, when he goes to bed, he meets
A teasing wife between the sheets,
'Tis six to five he'll never sleep,
But rave and toss till morning peep.
Yet harmless Betty must be blamed
Because you feel your lungs inflamed
But if you would not get a fever,
You never must one moment leave her.
This comes of all your drunken tricks,
Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks;
Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory
Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery
But like the prelate who lives yonder-a,
And always cries he is like Cassandra;
I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,
If once this company you were rid on,
Frequented honest folk, and very few,
You'd live till all your friends were weary of you.
But if rack punch you still would swallow,
I then forewarn'd you what would follow.
Are the Deanery sober hours?
Be witness for me all ye powers.
The cloth is laid at eight, and then
We sit till half an hour past ten;
One bottle well might serve for three
If Mrs. Robinson drank like me.
Ask how I fret when she has beckon'd
To Robert to bring up a second;
I hate to have it in my sight,
And drink my share in perfect spite.
If Robin brings the ladies word,
The coach is come, I 'scape a third;
If not, why then I fall a-talking
How sweet a night it is for walking;
For in all conscience, were my treasure able,
I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable;
It strikes eleven,--get out of doors.--
This is my constant farewell
Yours,
J. S.
October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.
You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the
provost.
LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW[1] IN THE EPISCOPAL PALACE AT KILMORE
Resolve me this, ye happy dead,
Who've lain some hundred years in bed,
From every persecution free
That in this wretched life we see;
Would ye resume a second birth,
And choose once more to live on earth?
[Footnote 1: Soon after Swift's acquaintance with Dr. Sheridan, they
passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocess of
Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the
following lines on one of the windows which look into the church-yard. In
the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer
to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it
has been since restored.--_Scott._]
DR. SHERIDAN WROTE UNDERNEATH THE
FOLLOWING LINES
Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb:
"Mortal, I would not change my doom,
To live in such a restless state,
To be unfortunately great;
To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves,
To shine amidst a race of slaves;
To learn from wise men to complain
And only rise to fall again:
No! let my dusty relics rest,
Until I rise among the blest."
[Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel's tomb lies within view of the window.]
THE UPSTART
The following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are by Mr. Wilson, the
editor, ascribed to Swift.--_Scott._
"---- The rascal! that's too mild a name;
Does he forget from whence he came?
Has he forgot from whence he sprung?
A mushroom in a bed of dung;
A maggot in a cake of fat,
The offspring of a beggar's brat;
As eels delight to creep in mud,
To eels we may compare his blood;
His blood delights in mud to run,
Witness his lazy, lousy son!
Puff'd up with pride and insolence,
Without a grain of common sense.
See with what consequence he stalks!
With what pomposity he talks!
See how the gaping crowd admire
The stupid blockhead and the liar!
How long shall vice triumphant reign?
How long shall mortals bend to gain?
How long shall virtue hide her face,
And leave her votaries in disgrace?
--Let indignation fire my strains,
Another villain yet remains--
Let purse-proud C----n next approach;
With what an air he mounts his coach!
A cart would best become the knave,
A dirty parasite and slave!
His heart in poison deeply dipt,
His tongue with oily accents tipt,
A smile still ready at command,
The pliant bow, the forehead bland--"
* * * * *
* * * * *
ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF WATERFORD[1]
--URBS INTACTA MANET--semper intacta manebit,
Tangere crabrones quis bene sanus amat?
[Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing
the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this
monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote
the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he
said, of the ladies.--_Scott._]
TRANSLATION
A thistle is the Scottish arms,
Which to the toucher threatens harms,
What are the arms of Waterford,
That no man touches--but a ----?
VERSES ON BLENHEIM[1]
Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam
Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas!
MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.
See, here's the grand approach,
That way is for his grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock;[2]
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind:
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.
[Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See
vol. i, p. 74.--W.E..B_]
[Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed
over two of the portals of Blenheim House; "for the better understanding
of which device," says Addison, "I must acquaint my English reader that a
cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that
signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation,"
and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The "Spectator," No.
59.--_W. E. B._]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY
Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it?--A judge or a peer.[2]
Which nobody can deny.
This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
Which nobody can deny.
O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
Which nobody can deny.
So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
Which nobody can deny.
But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue,
Since selling de contre be now all de vogue,
You be but von fool after seventeen rogue.
Which nobody can deny.
Some sell it for profit, 'tis very well known,
And some but for sitting in sight of the throne,
And other some sell what is none of their own.
Which nobody can deny.
But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze,
And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise,
With six other worthies as glorious as these.
Which nobody can deny.
There's Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood,
And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good,
All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood.
Which nobody can deny.
But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on't in time,
Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme,
We'll paint 'em in colours as black as their crime.
Which nobody can deny.
But P----r and copper L----h we'll excuse,
The commands of your betters you dare not refuse,
Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes.
Which nobody can deny.
[Footnote 1: This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who
threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had
not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve
are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course
this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of
England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have
been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written
by Swift.--_Scott._]
[Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG
UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN
Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by
his opposition to Wood's coinage.
BY HONEST JO. ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL
I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good;
Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.
In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right,
And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't.
And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season
When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason.
His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore,
Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more.
Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross,
For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood's dross.
To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win,
He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin.
Why, there's my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows,
He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows.
"A bishop," says the noble squire, "I hate the very name,
To have two thousand pounds a-year--O 'tis a burning shame!
Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I to have but five!"
And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive:
Now from his lordship's grace I hold a little piece of ground,
And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound.
Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, "Honest Jo,
Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go."
He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks,
For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man's box.
And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace,
Good lord! I wonder how I dared to look him in the face:
Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain;
He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain.
"Then," said my lord, "I'm very glad to see thee, honest friend,
I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend,
Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can;
I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man."
Then said his lordship with a smile, "I must have lawful cash,
I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood's trash!"
"God bless your Grace," I then replied, "I'd see him hanging higher,
Before I'd touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire."
To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke,
Our parsons read the Drapier's books, and make us honest folk.
And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found,
His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound;
"Why, sirrah," said the noble squire, "how dare you see my face,
Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace."
And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack,
That only for the bishop's lease 'twould quickly break my back.
Then God preserve his lordship's grace, and make him live as long
As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.
TO HIS GRACE THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN
A POEM
Serus in coelum redeas, diuque
Laetus intersis populo.--HOR., _Carm._ I, ii, 45.
Great, good, and just, was once applied
To one who for his country died;[l]
To one who lives in its defence,
We speak it in a happier sense.
O may the fates thy life prolong!
Our country then can dread no wrong:
In thy great care we place our trust,
Because thou'rt great, and good, and just:
Thy breast unshaken can oppose
Our private and our public foes:
The latent wiles, and tricks of state,
Your wisdom can with ease defeat.
When power in all its pomp appears,
It falls before thy rev'rend years,
And willingly resigns its place
To something nobler in thy face.
When once the fierce pursuing Gaul
Had drawn his sword for Marius' fall,
The godlike hero with a frown
Struck all his rage and malice down;
Then how can we dread William Wood,
If by thy presence he's withstood?
Where wisdom stands to keep the field,
In vain he brings his brazen shield;
Though like the sibyl's priest he comes,
With furious din of brazen drums
The force of thy superior voice
Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise.
[Footnote 1: The epitaph on Charles I by the Marquis of Montrose:
"Great, good, and just! could I but rate
My griefs to thy too rigid fate,
I'd weep the world in such a strain
As it should deluge once again;
But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,
I'll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds."
See Napier's "Montrose and the Covenanters," i, 520.--_W. E. B._]
TO THE CITIZENS[1]
And shall the Patriot who maintain'd your cause,
From future ages only meet applause?
Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid,
By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd?
Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside,
These wretches had been damn'd for parricide.
Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat
The sure destruction of an injured state,
Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd,
Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd;
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,
Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey,
Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief,
And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief,
But, if the people he preserved should cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to--die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast,
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?
If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don't deserve, and won't draw down your ruin,
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence;
That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise:
Think how he struggled for your liberty,
And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free.
M. B.
[Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature
M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the
Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier's
Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the
author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments,
while confined to Wood's scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth
letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature
of Ireland's connection with England. The object of these verses is, to
encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly
their own.--_Scott._]
PUNCH'S PETITION TO THE LADIES
----Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,
Auri sacra fames!----VIRG., _Aen._, iii.
This poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of
Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems
to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton,
when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.--_Scott._ See
vol. i, p. 169.--_W. E. B._
Fair ones who do all hearts command,
And gently sway with fan in hand
Your favourite--Punch a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls;
He humbly calls and begs you'll stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh'invades without pretence and right,
Or any law but that of might,
Our Pigmy land--and treats our kings
Like paltry idle wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of doors,
And call'd our chastest virgins whores;
He has not left our Queen a rag on,
Has forced away our George and Dragon,
Has broke our wires, nor was he civil
To Doctor Faustus nor the devil;
E'en us he hurried with full rage,
Most hoarsely squalling off the stage;
And faith our fright was very great
To see a minister of state,
Arm'd with power and fury come
To force us from our little home--
We fear'd, as I am sure we had reason,
An accusation of high-treason;
Till, starting up, says Banamiere,
"Treason, my friends, we need not fear,
For 'gainst the Brass we used no power,
Nor strove to save the chancellor.[1]
Nor did we show the least affection
To Rochford or the Meath election;
Nor did we sing,--'Machugh he means.'"
"You villain, I'll dash out your brains,
'Tis no affair of state which brings
Me here--or business of the King's;
I'm come to seize you all as debtors,
And bind you fast in iron fetters,
From sight of every friend in town,
Till fifty pound's to me paid down."
--"Fifty!" quoth I, "a devilish sum;
But stay till the brass farthings come,
Then we shall all be rich as Jews,
From Castle down to lowest stews;
That sum shall to you then be told,
Though now we cannot furnish gold."
Quoth he, "thou vile mis-shapen beast,
Thou knave, am I become thy jest;
And dost thou think that I am come
To carry nought but farthings home!
Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves,
Farthings are made for Irish slaves;
No brass for me, it must be gold,
Or fifty pounds in silver told,
That can by any means obtain
Freedom for thee and for thy train."
"Votre très humble serviteur,
I'm not in jest," said I, "I'm sure,
But from the bottom of my belly,
I do in sober sadness tell you,
I thought it was good reasoning,
For us fictitious men to bring
Brass counters made by William Wood
Intrinsic as we flesh and blood;
Then since we are but mimic men,
Pray let us pay in mimic coin."
Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate,
And couldst for ever hold debate;
But think'st thou I have nought to do
But to stand prating thus with you?
Therefore to stop your noisy parly,
I do at once assure you fairly,
That not a puppet of you all
Shall stir a step without this wall,
Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum,
Until you pay the foresaid sum."
Then marching off with swiftest race
To write dispatches for his grace,
The revel-master left the room,
And us condemn'd to fatal doom.
Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace,
Or if my jokes did ever please,
Use all your interest with your sec,[2]
(They say he's at the ladies' beck,)
And though he thinks as much of gold
As ever Midas[3] did of old:
Your charms I'm sure can never fail,
Your eyes must influence, must prevail;
At your command he'll set us free,
Let us to you owe liberty.
Get us a license now to play,
And we'll in duty ever pray.
[Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure
passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his
absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant,
who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.--_Scott._]
[Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, _rythmi gratia.--Scott._]
[Footnote 3: See Ovid, "Metam." xi, 85; Martial, vi, 86.--_W. E. B._]
EPIGRAM
Great folks are of a finer mould;
Lord! how politely they can scold!
While a coarse English tongue will itch,
For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.
EPIGRAM ON JOSIAH HORT[1]
ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM, WHO, ON ONE OCCASION, LEFT HIS CHURCH DURING SERVICE
IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET[2]
Lord Pam[3] in the church (you'd you think it) kneel'd down;
When told that the Duke was just come to Town--
His station despising, unawed by the place,
He flies from his God to attend to his Grace.
To the Court it was better to pay his devotion,
Since God had no hand in his Lordship's promotion.
[Footnote 1: See vol. i, "The Storm," at p. 242.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Lionel Cranfield, first Duke of Dorset, was Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland from 1730 to 1735.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Pam, the cant name for the knave of clubs, from the French
_Pamphile_. The person here intended was a famous B. known through the
whole kingdom by the name of Lord Pam. He was a great enemy to all men of
wit and learning, being himself the most ignorant as well as the most
vicious P. of all who had ever been honoured with that Title from the
days of the Apostles to the present year of the Christian Aera. He was
promoted _non tam providentia divina quam temporum iniquitate E-scopus_.
From a note in "The Toast," by Frederick Scheffer, written in Latin
verse, done into English by Peregrine O Donald, Dublin and London,
1736.--_W. E. B._]
EPIGRAM[1]
Behold! a proof of _Irish_ sense;
Here _Irish_ wit is seen!
When nothing's left that's worth defence,
We build a magazine.
[Footnote 1: Swift, in his latter days, driving out with his physician,
Dr. Kingsbury, observed a new building, and asked what it was designed
for. On being told that it was a magazine for arms and powder, "Oh! Oh!"
said the Dean, "This is worth remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my
tablets"--and taking out his pocket-book, he wrote the above
epigram.--_W. E. B._]
TRIFLES
GEORGE ROCHFORT'S VERSES
FOR THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S,
AT LARACOR, NEAR TRIM
MUSA CLONSHOGHIANA
That Downpatrick's Dean, or Patrick's down went,
Like two arrand Deans, two Deans errant I meant;
So that Christmas appears at Bellcampe like a Lent,
Gives the gamesters of both houses great discontent.
Our parsons agree here, as those did at Trent,
Dan's forehead has got a most damnable dent,
Besides a large hole in his Michaelmas rent.
But your fancy on rhyming so cursedly bent,
With your bloody ouns in one stanza pent;
Does Jack's utter ruin at picket prevent,
For an answer in specie to yours must be sent;
So this moment at crambo (not shuffling) is spent,
And I lose by this crotchet quaterze, point, and quint,
Which you know to a gamester is great bitterment;
But whisk shall revenge me on you, Batt, and Brent.
Bellcampe, January 1, 1717.
A LEFT-HANDED LETTER[1]
TO DR. SHERIDAN, 1718
Delany reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue,
That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung;
We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst,
Yet still are no wiser than we were at first.
_Pudet haec opprobria_, I freely must tell ye,
_Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli._
Though Delany advised you to plague me no longer,
You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor[2];
I must now, at one sitting, pay off my old score;
How many to answer? One, two, three, or four,
But, because the three former are long ago past,
I shall, for method-sake, begin with the last.
You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe,
Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow.
Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field,
Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield.
So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them,
Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly, _Te Deum._
So the famous Tom Leigh[3], when quite run a-ground,
Comes off by out-laughing the company round:
In every vile pamphlet you'll read the same fancies,
Having thus overthrown all our farther advances.
My offers of peace you ill understood;
Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good?
'Twas to teach you in modester language your duty;
For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye;
As a good quiet soul, who no mischief intends
To a quarrelsome fellow, cries, Let us be friends.
But we like Antæus and Hercules fight,
The oftener you fall, the oftener you write:
And I'll use you as he did that overgrown clown,
I'll first take you up, and then take you down;
And, 'tis your own case, for you never can wound
The worst dunce in your school, till he's heaved from the ground.
I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and
the other hand was employed at the same time in writing some letters of
business. September 20, 1718.--I will send you the rest when I have
leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.
[Footnote 1: The humour of this poem is partly lost, by the impossibility
of printing it left-handed as it was written.--_H_.]
[Footnote 2: Bishop of Bangor. For an account of him, see "Prose Works,"
v, 326.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Frequently mentioned by Swift in the Journal to Stella,
"Prose Works," ii, especially p. 404.--_W. E. B._]
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 surpasses a gander;
As much as a game-cock's excell'd by a sparrow;
As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow:
As much and much more as the most handsome man
Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan.
T. SHERIDAN.
This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called
the left hand.
Oft have I been by poets told,
That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old.
Alas, thy numbers failing all,
Poor Jonathan, how they do fall!
Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell,
Now jingle like a rusty bridle:
Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet,
Now limp upon their gouty feet:
Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime,
Are humbled by the tyrant, Time:
Alas! what cannot Time subdue?
Time has reduced my wine and you;
Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings,
Disabled both in our main springs;
So that of late we two are grown
The jest and scorn of all the town.
But yet, if my advice be ta'en,
We two may be as great again;
I'll send you wings, you send me wine;
Then you will fly, and I shall shine.
This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other.
How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex'd her;
Little did she know, I was _ambidexter_.
T. SHERIDAN.
TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN
REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR,
I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school,
in the lower end of St. Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a
Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood
less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself: therefore I
made bold to send you the enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may
qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if
you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one
to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane.
I am yours,
Reverend Sir, to command,
PAT. REYLY.
Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.
HOR., _Epist_. II, i, 117
AD AMICUM ERUDITUM THOMAM SHERIDAN
Deliciæ, Sheridan, Musarum, dulcis amice,
Sic tibi propitius Permessi ad flumen Apollo
Occurrat, seu te mimum convivia rident,
Aequivocosque sales spargis, seu ludere versu
Malles; dic, Sheridan, quisnam fuit ille deorum,
Quae melior natura orto tibi tradidit artem
Rimandi genium puerorum, atque ima cerebri
Scrutandi? Tibi nascenti ad cunabula Pallas
Astitit; et dixit, mentis praesaga futurae,
Heu, puer infelix! nostro sub sidere natus;
Nam tu pectus eris sine corpore, corporis umbra;
Sed levitate umbram superabis, voce cicadam:
Musca femur, palmas tibi mus dedit, ardea crura.
Corpore sed tenui tibi quod natura negavit,
Hoc animi dotes supplebunt; teque docente,
Nec longum tempus, surget tibi docta juventus,
Artibus egregiis animas instructa novellas.
Grex hinc Paeonius venit, ecce, salutifer orbi;
Ast, illi causas orant: his insula visa est
Divinam capiti nodo constringere mitram.
Natalis te horae non fallunt signa, sed usque
Conscius, expedias puero seu laetus Apollo
Nascenti arrisit; sive ilium frigidus horror
Saturni premit, aut septem inflavere triones.
Quin tu altè penitusque latentia semina cernis
Quaeque diu obtundendo olim sub luminis auras
Erumpent, promis; quo ritu saepè puella
Sub cinere hesterno sopitos suscitat ignes.
Te dominum agnoscit quocunque sub aëre natus:
Quos indulgentis nimium custodia matris
Pessundat: nam saepè vides in stipite matrem.
Aureus at ramus, venerandae dona Sibyllae,
Aeneae sedes tantùm patefecit Avernas;
Saepè puer, tua quem tetigit semel aurea virga,
Et coelum, terrasque videt, noctemque profundam.
Ad te, doctissime Delany,
Pulsus à foribus Decani,
Confugiens edo querelam,
Pauper petens clientelam.
Petebam Swift doctum patronum,
Sed ille dedit nullum donum,
Neque cibum neque bonum.
Quaeris quàm malè sit stomacho num?
Iratus valdè valdè latrat,
Crumenicidam fermè patrat:
Quin ergo releves aegrotum,
Dato cibum, dato potum.
Ita in utrumvis oculum,
Dormiam bibens vestrum poculum.
Quaeso, Reverende Vir, digneris hanc epistolam inclusam cum versiculis
perlegere, quam cum fastidio abjecit et respuebat Decanus ille (inquam)
lepidissimus et Musarum et Apollinis comes.
Reverende Vir,
De vestrâ benignitate et clementiâ in frigore et fame exanimatos, nisi
persuasum esset nobis, hanc epistolam reverentiae vestrae non
scripsissem; quam profectò, quoniam eo es ingenio, in optimam accipere
partem nullus dubito. Saevit Boreas, mugiunt procellae, dentibus invitis
maxillae bellum gerunt. Nec minus, intestino depraeliantibus tumultu
visceribus, classicum sonat venter. Ea nostra est conditio, haec nostra
querela. Proh Deûm atque hominum fidem! quare illi, cui ne libella nummi
est, dentes, stomachum, viscera concessit natura? mehercule, nostro
ludibrium debens corpori, frustra laboravit a patre voluntario exilio,
qui macrum ligone macriorem reddit agellum. Huc usque evasi, ad te, quasi
ad asylum, confugiens, quem nisi bene nôssem succurrere potuisse,
mehercule, neque fores vestras pultûssem, neque limina tetigissem. Quàm
longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens,
despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymae rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In
viâ nullum fuit solatium praeterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne
turdos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Maecenatis convivium, ita me picturâ
pascens inani, saepius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musarum
sacra fames? Haec omnia, quae nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires;
nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale.
Vivitur parvo malè, sed canebat
Flaccus ut parvo benè: quod negamus:
Pinguis et lautè saturatus ille
Ridet inanes.
Pace sic dicam liceat poetae
Nobilis laeti salibus faceti
Usque jocundi, lepidè jocantis
Non sine curâ.
Quis potest versus (meditans merendam,
Prandium, coenam) numerare? quis non
Quot panes pistor locat in fenestrâ
Dicere mallet?
Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus;
Latrat ingenti stomachus furore;
Quaeso digneris renovare fauces,
Docte Patrone.
Vestiant lanae tenues libellos,
Vestiant panni dominum trementem,
Aedibus vestris trepidante pennâ
Musa propinquat.
Nuda ne fiat, renovare vestes
Urget, et nunquam tibi sic molestam
Esse promittit, nisi sit coacta
Frigore iniquo.
Si modo possem! Vetat heu pudor me
Plura, sed praestat rogitare plura,
An dabis binos digitos crumenae im-
ponere vestrae?
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 magazine of standish
Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean,
Than any sword we brandish.
My ink's my flash, my pen's my bolt;
Whene'er I please to thunder,
I'll make you tremble like a colt,
And thus I'll keep you under.
THOMAS SHERIDAN.
TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S
Dear Dean, I'm in a sad condition,
I cannot see to read or write;
Pity the darkness of thy Priscian,
Whose days are all transform'd to night.
My head, though light, 's a dungeon grown,
The windows of my soul are closed;
Therefore to sleep I lay me down,
My verse and I are both composed.
Sleep, did I say? that cannot be;
For who can sleep, that wants his eyes?
My bed is useless then to me,
Therefore I lay me down to rise.
Unnumber'd thoughts pass to and fro
Upon the surface of my brain;
In various maze they come and go,
And come and go again.
So have you seen in sheet burnt black,
The fiery sparks at random run;
Now here, now there, some turning back
Some ending where they just begun.
THOMAS SHERIDAN.
AN ANSWER, BY DELANY, TO THOMAS SHERIDAN
Dear Sherry, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded sore eye,
And the more I consider your case, still the more I
Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye.
Besides, the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye,
In pity cry out, "He's a poor blinded Tory."
But listen to me, and I'll soon lay before ye
A sovereign cure well attested in Gory.
First wash it with _ros_, that makes dative _rori_,
Then send for three leeches, and let them all gore ye;
Then take a cordial dram to restore ye,
Then take Lady Judith, and walk a fine boree,
Then take a glass of good claret _ex more_,
Then stay as long as you can _ab uxore_;
And then if friend Dick[1] will but ope your back-door, he
Will quickly dispel the black clouds that hang o'er ye,
And make you so bright, that you'll sing tory rory,
And make a new ballad worth ten of John Dory:
(Though I work your cure, yet he'll get the glory.)
I'm now in the back school-house, high up one story,
Quite weary with teaching, and ready to _mori_.
My candle's just out too, no longer I'll pore ye,
But away to Clem Barry's,[2]--there's an end of my story.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]
[Footnote 2: See "The Country Life," i, 140.]
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, there's 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.
[Footnote 1: Probably Dr. Davenant.]
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.
TO THOMAS SHERIDAN
Dear Tom, I'm surprised that your verse did not jingle;
But your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single.
For, as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime,
Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme.
If you had not took physic, I'd pay off your bacon,
But now I'll write short, for fear you're short-taken.
Besides, Dick[1] forbid me, and call'd me a fool;
For he says, short as 'tis, it will give you a stool.
In libris bellis, tu parum parcis ocellis;
Dum nimium scribis, vel talpâ caecior ibis,
Aut ad vina redis, nam sic tua lumina laedis:
Sed tibi coenanti sunt collyria tanti?
Nunquid eges visu, dum comples omnia risu?
Heu Sheridan caecus, heu eris nunc cercopithecus.
Nunc benè nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus:
Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abundà,
Nec Phoebe fili versum quîs[2] mittere Ryly.
Quid tibi cum libris? relavet tua lumina Tybris[3]
Mixtus Saturno;[4] penso sed parcè diurno
Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu.
Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt.
Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes
Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, mî bone, lynces.
Culum oculum tergis, dum scripta hoc flumine mergis;
Tunc oculi et nates, ni fallor, agent tibi grates.
Vim fuge Decani, nec sit tibi cura Delani:
Heu tibi si scribant, aut si tibi fercula libant,
Pone loco mortis, rapis fera pocula fortis
Haec tibi pauca dedi, sed consule Betty my Lady,
Huic te des solae, nec egebis pharmacopolae.
Haec somnians cecini,
JON. SWIFT.
Oct. 23, 1718.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]
[Footnote 2: Pro potes.--_Horat._]
[Footnote 3: Pro quovis fluvio.--_Virg._]
[Footnote 4: Saccharo Saturni.]
SWIFT TO SHERIDAN, IN REPLY
Tom, for a goose you keep but base quills,
They're fit for nothing else but pasquils.
I've often heard it from the wise,
That inflammations in the eyes
Will quickly fall upon the tongue,
And thence, as famed John Bunyan sung,
From out the pen will presently
On paper dribble daintily.
Suppose I call'd you goose, it is hard
One word should stick thus in your gizzard.
You're my goose, and no other man's;
And you know, all my geese are swans:
Only one scurvy thing I find,
Swans sing when dying, geese when blind.
But now I smoke where lies the slander,--
I call'd you goose instead of gander;
For that, dear Tom, ne'er fret and vex,
I'm sure you cackle like the sex.
I know the gander always goes
With a quill stuck across his nose:
So your eternal pen is still
Or in your claw, or in your bill.
But whether you can tread or hatch,
I've something else to do than watch.
As for your writing I am dead,
I leave it for the second head.
Deanery-House, Oct. 27, 1718.
AN ANSWER BY SHERIDAN
Perlegi versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos;
Perlepidos quidèm; scribendo semper es idem.
Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo;
Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria praebes,
Ne minus insanae reparas quoque damna Dianae,
Quae me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit)
Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto
Lodicem binum premit, atque negat mihi vinum.
O terra et coelum! quàm redit pectus anhelum.
Os mihi jam siccum, liceat mihi bibere dic cum?
Ex vestro grato poculo, tam saepe prolato,
Vina crepant: sales ostendet quis mihi tales?
Lumina, vos sperno, dum cuppae gaudia cerno:
Perdere etenim pellem nostram, quoque crura mavellem.
Amphora, quàm dulces risus queis pectora mulces,
Pangitur a Flacco, cum pectus turget Iaccho:
Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe;
Nempe jocosa propago, haesit sic vocis imago.
TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718
Whate'er your predecessors taught us,
I have a great esteem for Plautus;
And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence;
But as to comic Aristophanes,
The rogue too vicious and too profane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis
Down in the Strand,[1] just where the New Pole[2] is;
For I can tell you one thing, that I can,
You will not find it in the Vatican.
He and Cratinus used, as Horace says,
To take his greatest grandees for asses.
Poets, in those days, used to venture high;
But these are lost full many a century.
Thus you may see, dear friend, _ex pede_ hence,
My judgment of the old comedians.
Proceed to tragics: first Euripides
(An author where I sometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly censured by the Stagirite,
Who says, his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author despises
So much he swears the very best piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's;
And that a woman in these tragedies,
Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is.
At least I'm well assured, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
But, above all, I prefer Eschylus,
Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us.
And now I find my Muse but ill able,
To hold out longer in trissyllable.
I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye?
