The Dean Of St. Patrick's

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN     SIR,     I cannot but think that we live in a bad age,      O tempora, O mores! as 'tis in the adage.     My foot was but just set out from my cathedral,     When into my hands comes a letter from the droll.     I can't pray in quiet for you and your verses;     But now let us hear what the Muse from your car says.         Hum - excellent good - your anger was stirr'd;     Well, punners and rhymers must have the last word.     But let me advise you, when next I hear from you,     To leave off this passion which does not become you;     For we who debate on a subject important,     Must argue with calmness, or else will come short on't.     For myself, I protest, I care not a fiddle,     For a riddle and sieve, or a sieve and a riddle;     And think of the sex as you please, I'd as lieve     You call them a riddle, as call them a sieve.     Yet still you are out, (though to vex you I'm loth,)     For I'll prove it impossible they can be both;     A school-boy knows this, for it plainly appears     That a sieve dissolves riddles by help of the shears;     For you can't but have heard of a trick among wizards,     To break open riddles with shears or with scissars.         Think again of the sieve, and I'll hold you a wager,     You'll dare not to question my minor or major.[1]     A sieve keeps half in, and therefore, no doubt,     Like a woman, keeps in less than it lets out.     Why sure, Mr. Poet, your head got a-jar,     By riding this morning too long in your car:     And I wish your few friends, when they next see your cargo,     For the sake of your senses would lay an embargo.     You threaten the stocks; I say you are scurrilous     And you durst not talk thus, if I saw you at our ale-house.     But as for your threats, you may do what you can     I despise any poet that truckled to Dan     But keep a good tongue, or you'll find to your smart     From rhyming in cars, you may swing in a cart.     You found out my rebus with very much modesty;     But thanks to the lady; I'm sure she's too good to ye:     Till she lent you her help, you were in a fine twitter;     You hit it, you say; - you're a delicate hitter.     How could you forget so ungratefully a lass,     And if you be my Phoebus, pray who was your Pallas?         As for your new rebus, or riddle, or crux,     I will either explain, or repay it by trucks;     Though your lords, and your dogs, and your catches, methinks,     Are harder than ever were put by the Sphinx.     And thus I am fully revenged for your late tricks,     Which is all at present from the          DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S.     From my closet, Sept, 12, 1718, just 12 at noon.