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.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]
[Footnote 2: See "The Country Life," i, 140.]
A REPLY, BY SHERIDAN, TO DELANY
I like your collyrium,
Take my eyes, sir, and clear ye 'um,
'Twill gain you a great reputation;
By this you may rise,
Like the doctor so wise,[1]
Who open'd the eyes of the nation.
And these, I must tell ye,
Are bigger than its belly;—
You know, theres in Livy a story
Of the hands and the feet
Denying of meat,—
Don't I write in the dark like a Tory?
Your water so far goes,
'Twould serve for an Argus,
Were all his whole hundred sore;
So many we read
He had in his head,
Or Ovid's a son of a whore.
For your recipe, sir,
May my lids never stir,
If ever I think once to fee you;
For I'd have you to know,
When abroad I can go,
That it's honour enough, if I see you.
[Footnote 1: Probably Dr. Davenant.]