« EelmineJätka »
But be 't as 'twill, this you must grant,
I value not your jokes of noose,
Yet one thing vexes me, I own,
Thou forry fcare-crow of skin and bone;
To be call'd lean by a skeleton,
'Tis true indeed, to curry friends,
You seem to praise, to make amends,
nor fear it.
who 'd bear it?
'Bout latent charms beneath my cloaths For every one that knows me knows That I have nothing like my nofe
pass now where you fleer and laugh, 'Caufe I call Dan my better half !
Oh there you think you have me fafe!
you flout me
Dan's noble mettle, Sherry base;
So Dan's the better, though the less,
'An ounce of gold's worth ten of brafs,
As to your fpelling, let me fee,
has lead on 't.
BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME.
THREE days for anfwer I have waited,
I thought an ace you 'd ne'er have bated,
Henceforth acknowledge, that a nofe
Blush for ill-fpelling, for ill-lines,
I hear with fome concern you roar,
and pofts, Sir. Thy
Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant,
I'm griev'd to hear your banishment,
I maul'd you, when you look'd fo bluff,
and cry on.
to th' lion
SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSIO N.
BY THE DEAN.
"Cedo jam, miferæ cognofcens præmia rixæ,
POOR Sherry, inglorious,
To Dan the victorious,
Petition and greeting.
TO you victorious and brave,
Your now-fubdued and fuppliant slave
Who when I fought ftill cut me down,
Now lowly crouch'd I cry peccavi,
For you, my conqueror and my king,
Will fhew yourself a lion.
Alas! Sir, I had no defign,
But was unwarily drawn in;
For fpite I ne'er had any;
'Twas the damn'd squire with the hard name;
They tempted me t' attack your highnefs,
Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween,
And they, alas yield fmall relief,
Of lafh laid on by you.
To the Rev. DANIEL JACKSON; To be humbly prefented by Mr. SHERIDAN in Perfon, with Refpect, Care, and Speed,
TERE I return my truft, nor afk,
If I have well perform'd my task,
Too long I bore this weighty pack,
As Hercules the sky;
Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back,
Let me be ftander-by.
Not all the witty things you fpeak
Not half the puns you make a week,
With me you left him out at nurse,
I ne'er could make him better.
He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes
And, when he's lafh'd a hundred times,
He rhymes and puns
When rods are laid on fehool-boys-bums,
The more they use the whip.
Thus, a lean beaft beneath a load
(A beaft of Irish breed)
Will, in a tedious, dirty road,
Outgo the prancing fteed.
You knock him down and down in vain,
And lay him flat before`ye,
For, foon as he gets up again,