You made me in your last a goose; I lay my life on't you are wrong, To raise me by such foul abuse; My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue; And slit, just like a bird will chatter, And like a bird do something more; When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter, I'll change you to a black-a-moor. I'll write while I have half an eye in my head; I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead. Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave, I'll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1] [Footnote 1; _See post_, p. 351.--_W. E. B._] SHERIDAN TO SWIFT I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean, To see you live, so often slain. My arrows fly and fly in vain, But still I try and try again. I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein; Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain, Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean; I will not tell, because it's plain. Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane; If so, from pen and ink refrain. Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain For her and you; your life's a scene Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane, Enough to crack the strongest brain. Now to conclude, I do remain, Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN. SWIFT TO SHERIDAN Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance, Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance. You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer; Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an answer? If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye, And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury, I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk; I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk: Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding, I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin. MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723