But I think it base in you to send a poor fellow out so late at this time of year, when one would not turn out a dog that one valued; I appeal to your friend Mr. Connor.

I would present my humble service to my lady Mountcashel; but truly I thought she would have made advances to have been acquainted with me, as she pretended.

But now I can write no more, for you see plainly my paper is ended.

1 P. S.

I wish, when you prated, your letter you'd dated; Much plague it created. I scolded and rated; My soul is much grated; for your man I long waited, I think you are fated, like a bear to be baited: Your man is belated: the case I have stated; And me you have cheated. My stable's unslated, Come back t' us well freighted.

I remember my late head; and wish you translated, For teasing me.

2 P. S.

Mrs. Dingley desires me singly

Her service to present you; hopes that will content you;

But Johnson madam is grown a sad dame,

For want of your converse, and cannot send one

verse.

3 P. S.

You keep such a twattling with you and your bottling;

But I see the sum total, we shall ne'er have a bottle; The long and the short, we shall not have a quart. I wish you would sign't, that we have a pint.

For

For all your colloguing,* I'd be glad of a knoggin:† But I doubt 'tis a sham; you wont give us a dram. 'Tis of shine a mouth moon-ful, you wont part with a spoonful,

And I must be nimble, If I can fill my thimble, You see I wont stop, till I come to a drop;

But I doubt the oraculum, is a poor supernaculum; Though perhaps you may tell it, for a grace if we STELLA.

smell it.

.

DR. SHERIDAN'S ANSWER.

I'D have you to know, as sure as you're dean,
On Thursday my cask of Obrien I'll drain;
If my wife is not willing, I say she's a quean;
And my right to the cellar, egad, I'll maintain
As bravely as any that fought at Dunblain:
Go tell her it over and over again.

I hope, as I ride to the town, it won't rain;
For, should it, I fear it will cool my hot brain,
Entirely extinguish my poetic vein;

And then I should be as stupid as Kain,

Who preach'd on three heads, though he mention'd but twain.

Now Wardel's in haste, and begins to complain; Your most humble servant, dear sir, I remain,

Get Helsham, Walmsley, Delany,
And some Grattans, if there be any:
Take care you do not bid too many.

T.S-N.

* A phrase used in Ireland for a specious appearance of kindness without sincerity. F.

† A name used in Ireland for the English quartern. F.

i. e. in Dublin, for they were country clergy. F.

DR. SWIFT'S REPLY.

THE verses you sent on your bottling your wine
Were, in every one's judgment, exceedingly fine;
And I must confess, as a dean and divine,

I think you inspir'd by the Muses all nine.
I nicely examin'd them every line,

And the worst of them all like a barndoor did shine;
O, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine!
With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine.
I know they have many a wicked design;
And, give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine.
However, I wish, honest comrade of mine,
You would really on Thursday leave St. Catharine,
Where I hear you are cramm'd every day like a
swine;

With me you'll no more have a stomach to dine,
Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine:
So I wish you were toothless, like lord Masserîne.
But, were you as wicked as lewd Aretine,

I wish you would tell me which way you incline,
If, when you return, your road you don't line,
On Thursday I'll pay my respects at your shrine,
Wherever you bend, wherever you twine,
In square, or in opposite circle, cr trine.

Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine:
I hope you have swill'd, with new milk from the

kine,

As much as the Liffee's outdone by the Rhine; And Dan shall be with us, with nose aquiline.

*

The seat of lady Mountcashel near Dublin, F.

If you do not come back, we shall weep out our

eyné ;

Or may your gown never be good Lutherine.
The beef you have got, I hear, is a chine

But, if too many come, your madam will whine;
And then you may kiss the low end of her spine.
But enough of this poetry Alexandrine :

I hope you will not think this a pasquine.

STELLA'S BIRTH DAY. 1719-20:

ALL travellers at first incline
Where'er they see the fairest sign:
And if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend,
The Angel Inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decay'd;
The house will never lose its trade:

Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas,
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as dauber's hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We think it both a shame and sin
To quit the true old Angel Inn.

Now this is Stella's case in fact,
An angel's face a little crack'd,
Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-six:
This drew us in at first to find
In such a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
0 4

See

See at her levee crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains

With breeding, humour, wit, and sense,
And puts them but to small expense;
Their mind so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives!
And had her stock been less, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Or stop and light at Cloe's head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed?
Then, Cloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints, that Stella is no chicken;
Your innuendoes, when
tell us,

you

That Stella loves to talk with fellows:

And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That should you live to see the day,
When Stella's locks must all be gray,
When age must print a furrow'd trace
On every feature of her face;

Though you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe,
To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;

No bloom of youth can ever blind

ន

The cracks and wrinkles of

your mind: All men of sense will pass your door,

And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.

ΤΟ