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] - theres an end of my story.