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My offers of peace you ill understood:

Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good?
'Twas to teach you in modefter language your duty;
For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye :
As a good quiet foul, who no mischief intends
To a quarrelfome fellow, cries, Let us be friends.
But we like Antæus and Hercules fight,

The oftener you fall, the oftener you write ;
And I'll ufe you as he did that overgrown clown,
I'll first take you up, and then take you down :
And, 'tis your own cafe, for you never can wound
The worst dunce in your fchool, till he 's heav'd from
the ground.

I beg your pardon for ufing my left-hand, but I was in great hafte, and the other hand was employed at the fame time in writing fome letters of bufinefs. - I will fend you the rest when I have leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.


ASON, the valiant prince of Greece,


From Colchos brought the Golden Fleece:

We comb the wool, refine the ftuff,

For modern Jafon, that 's enough.

Oh! could we tame yon watchful* Dragon,
Old Jafon would have lefs to brag on.

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WHATE'ER your predeceffors 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 Ariftophanes,

The rogue too vicious and too prophane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis

Down in the Strand *, just where the New Pole is;
For I can tell you one thing, that I can
(You will not find it in the Vatican).
He and Cratinus us'd, as Horace fays,
To take his greatest grandees for alfes.
Poets, in those days, us'd to venture high;
But these are loft full many a century.
Thus you may fee, dear friend, ex pede hence,
My judgement of the old Comedians.

Proceed to Tragicks: firft, Euripides
(An author where I fometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly cenfur'd by the Stagirite,
Who fays, his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author defpifes
So much, he fwears the very beft piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thefpis's;
And that a woman, in thefe tragedies,
Commonly fpeaking, but a fad jade is. -


*The fact may be true; but the rhyme coft me fome trouble. SwIFS.

At least, I'm well affur'd, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
But, above all, I prefer fchylus,

Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us.
And now I find my Mufe but ill able,
To hold out longer in Triffyllable.

I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye ?

MARCH 13, 1718-19.


TELLA this day is thirty-four,
(We fha' n't difpute a year or more):
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy fize and years are doubled,
Since first I faw thee at fixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green:
So little is thy form declin'd;
Made up fo largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, fize, and years, and wit!
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs fo graceful, wife, and fair;
With half the luftre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and fize.
And then, before it grew too late,

How should I beg of gentle Fate
(That either nymph might have her (wain)
To fplit my worship too in twain!



DEAR Dean, fince in cruxes and puns you and I deal,

Pray why is a woman a fieve and a riddle?

"Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning, In bed as I lay, Sir, a-toffing and turning.

You'll find, if you read but a few of your hiftories,
All women as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle I know you 'll be eager,
And make every one of the sex a Belphegor.

But that will not do, for I mean to commend them:
I fwear without jeft I an honour intend them.
In a fieve, Sir, their antient extraction I quite tell,
In a riddle I give you their power and their title.
This I told you before: do you know what I mean, Sır?
"Not I, by my troth, Sir." - Then read it again, Sir.
The reason I fend you these lines of rhymes double
Is purely through pity, to fave you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last;
When your Pegasus canter'd it triple, and rid faft.
As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnaffus,
With Phoebus's leave, to run with his affes,


goes flow and fure, and he never is jaded, While your fiery fteed is whipp'd, fpurr'd, baftinaded.


IN reading your letter alone in my hackney,
Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh.
And when with much labour the matter I crackt,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.

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A woman's no fieve (for with that you begin),
Because the lets out more than e'er fhe takes in.
And that she's a riddle, can never be right,
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light.

But, grant her a fieve, I can fay fomething archer:
Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher.

Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation,

What name for a maid, was the first man's damnation?
If your worship will please to explain me this rebus,
I fwear from henceforward you fhall be my Phoebus.
From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11,
1719, paft 12 at noon.



LL travelers at firft incline

Where-e'er they see the fairest sign;

And, if they find the chambers neat,

And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend

The Angel-inn to every friend.

What though the painting grows decay'd,
The house will never lofe its trade :
Nay, though the treacherous tapfter Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,

* Vir Gin, Man-trap.


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