Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go: 'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, Because I've more vexation here. [Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.--_Dublin Edition._] [Footnote 2: _They_ is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is, "They have stolen it." _Dublin Edition._--_W. E. B._] AN INVITATION TO DINNER FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT 1727 I've sent to the ladies this morning to warn 'em, To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1] Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship Can take up with me, and my friend Stella's leanship.[2] I've got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding bret, That's just disengaged from the toils of a net: An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted, With lemons, and butter, and sippets well toasted: Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies, Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes; And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they died, And now they're to lie in some crumbs that are fried. My wine will inspire you with joy and delight, 'Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright; An emblem of one that you love, I suppose, Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4] Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope, We'll wean you from sighing for England I hope; When we are together there's nothing that is dull, There's nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or Tisdall. We've sworn to make out an agreeable feast, Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste. Your answer in half-an-hour, though you are at prayers; you have a pencil in your pocket. [Footnote 1: A village near Dublin, where Dr. Sheridan had a country house.] [Footnote 2: Stella was at this time in a very declining state of health. She died the January following.--_F._] [Footnote 3: The youth who died for love of his own image reflected in a fountain, and was changed into a flower of the same name. Ovid, "Metam.," iii, 407.--_W. E. B._] [Footnote 4: He means Stella, who was certainly one of the most amiable women in the world.--_F._] ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S HOLE[1] WITH THE DOCTOR[2] AT THEIR HEAD N.B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR. SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728 Fair ladies, number five, Who in your merry freaks, With little Tom contrive To feast on ale and steaks; While he sits by a-grinning, To see you safe in Sot's Hole, Set up with greasy linen, And neither mugs nor pots whole; Alas! I never thought A priest would please your palate; Besides, I'll hold a groat He'll put you in a ballad; Where I shall see your faces, On paper daub'd so foul, They'll be no more like graces, Than Venus like an owl. And we shall take you rather To be a midnight pack Of witches met together, With Beelzebub in black. It fills my heart with woe, To think such ladies fine Should be reduced so low, To treat a dull divine.