My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes; As the Dean of St. Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies! I cannot lie down, but immediately rise, To answer your stuff and the Doctor's likewise. Like a horse with a gall, I'm pester'd with flies, But his head and his tail new succour supplies, To beat off the vermin from back, rump, and thighs. The wing of a goose before me now lies, Which is both shield and sword for such weak enemies. Whoever opposes me, certainly dies, Though he were as valiant as Condé or Guise. The women disturb me a-crying of pies, With a voice twice as loud as a horse when he neighs. By this, Sir, you find, should we rhyme for a prize, That I'd gain cloth of gold, when you'd scarce merit frize. TO THOMAS SHERIDAN Dear Tom, I'm surprised that your verse did not jingle; But your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single. For, as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime, Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme. If you had not took physic, I'd pay off your bacon, But now I'll write short, for fear you're short-taken. Besides, Dick[1] forbid me, and call'd me a fool; For he says, short as 'tis, it will give you a stool. In libris bellis, tu parum parcis ocellis; Dum nimium scribis, vel talpâ caecior ibis, Aut ad vina redis, nam sic tua lumina laedis: Sed tibi coenanti sunt collyria tanti? Nunquid eges visu, dum comples omnia risu? Heu Sheridan caecus, heu eris nunc cercopithecus. Nunc benè nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus: Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abundà, Nec Phoebe fili versum quîs[2] mittere Ryly. Quid tibi cum libris? relavet tua lumina Tybris[3] Mixtus Saturno;[4] penso sed parcè diurno Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu. Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt. Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, mî bone, lynces. Culum oculum tergis, dum scripta hoc flumine mergis; Tunc oculi et nates, ni fallor, agent tibi grates. Vim fuge Decani, nec sit tibi cura Delani: Heu tibi si scribant, aut si tibi fercula libant, Pone loco mortis, rapis fera pocula fortis Haec tibi pauca dedi, sed consule Betty my Lady, Huic te des solae, nec egebis pharmacopolae. Haec somnians cecini, JON. SWIFT. Oct. 23, 1718. [Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.] [Footnote 2: Pro potes.--_Horat._] [Footnote 3: Pro quovis fluvio.--_Virg._] [Footnote 4: Saccharo Saturni.] SWIFT TO SHERIDAN, IN REPLY