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Upon his incomparable VĘ R S Ę S, &c.
By Dr. DelANY, in SHERIDAN's Name *
HAI!, human compound quadrifariaus,

Invincible as Wight Briareus !
Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one,
Stronger than triple-body'd Geryon!
O may your valtness deign t’excuse
The praises of a puny Mụfe,
Unable, in her utmost flight,
To reach thy huge Coloffan height.
T'attempt to write like thee wese frantic,
Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic.

Yet let me bless, in humbler Itrain,
Thy vast, thy bold Cambyfian vein,
Pour'd out t enrich thy native islę,
As Egypt wont to be with Nile.
Oh, how I joy to see thee wander,
In many a winding loose mæander,
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 ;

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Where every line, as huge as seven,
If stretch'd in length, would reach to Heaven :
Here all comparing would be flandering,
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.

Oh thou, of all the Nine infpirid !
My languid foul, with teaching tird,
How is it raptur’d, when it thinks
On thy harmonious sett of clinks;
Each answering each in various rhymes,
Like Echo to St. Patrick's chimes !

Thy Muse, majestic in her rage,
Moves like Statira on the stage ;
And scarcely can one page

The length of such a flowing train :
Her train, of variegated die,
Shews like Thaumantia's in the sky;
Alike they glow, alike they please,
Alike imprest by Phæbus' rays.
Thy verse

(Ye Gods! I cannot bear it) To what, to what shall I compare it ? 'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on, The fainous statue of Laocoon.

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'Tis like, - () yes, 'tis very like it,
The long, long string, with which you fly kite.
'Tis like what you, and one or two more,
Roar to your Echo * in good-humour;
And every couplet thou hast writ
Conclude like Rattab-zwbittab-wbit t.

To Mr. THOMAS SHERIDAN, Upon his Verses written in Circles. By Dr. Swift. IT

never was known that circular letters, By humble companions, were sent to their betters : And, as to the subject, our judgement, meherc'le, Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle. But now for

your verfes ; we tell you, imprimis,
The segment so large 'twixt your reason and rhyme is,
That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound,
And, before we find either, our noddles turn round.
Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant,
To give us your meafures of line by a quadrant.
But we took our dividers, and found


metre, In each single verse, took up a diameter. But how, Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, to place in the centre 1? 'Twill appear, to your cost, you are fairly trepann'd, For the chord of your circle is now in their hand.

* At Gaulstown, there is a remarkably famous echo. + An allusion to the sound produced by the echo. Their figures were in the centre of the verses.

The chord, or the radius, it matters not whether,
By which your jade Pegasus, fixt in a tether,
As her betters are us'd, shall be lafh'd round the ring,
Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds the string.
Will Hancock declares, you are out of your compass,
To encroach on his art by writing of bombass;
And has taken just now a firm resolutiòn
To answer your style without circumlocution.

Lady Betty * presents you her service most humble,
And is not afraid your worship will grumble,
That she makes of your verses a hoop for Miss Tamt,
Which is all at present; and so I remain



WITH musick and poetry equally bleft,

A bard thus Apollo most humbly addrest: “ Great author of harmony, verses, and light ! “ Asisted by thee, I both fiddle and write. as Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day,

My verse is neglected, my tunes thrown away.. 5Thy substitute here, Vice-Apollo. I, disdains * To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains ;

* The lady of George Rochford, efq.
+ Mifs Thomason, lady Betty's daughter.
I See “. Apollo to the Dean," p. 183.


Thy manual signet refuses to put “ To the airs I produce from the pen or the gut. “ Be thou then propitious, great Phæbus; and grant “Relief, or reward, to my merit, or want. “ Though the Dean and Delany transcendently thine, “O brighten one solo or fonnet of mine. “With them I'm content thou shoukitmake thy abode : “ But visit thy servant in jig or in odle. “ Make one work immortal : 'tis all I request.”

Apollo look'd pleas'd ; and, resolving to jest, Reply'd, “ Honest friend, I've confider'd thy case : “ Nor dislike thy well-meaning and humourous face.

Thy petition I grant : the boon is not great; “ Thy works shall continue : and here is the receipt. " On rondeaus hereafter thy fideile-strings fpend : « Write verses in circles : they never shall end."



T 'O fair Lady Betty, Dan fat for his picture,

And defy'd her to draw him so oft' as he piqu'd her: He knew the 'd no pencil or colouring by her, And therefore he thought he might fafely defy her. Come sit, says my Lady; then whips up her scissar, And cuts out his coxcomb in silk in a trice, Sir. Dan sat with attention, and saw with surprize How she lengthen’d his chin, how the hollow'd his eyes; But flatter'd himself with a secret conceit, That his thin lantern jaws all her art would defeat.


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