T. SHERIDAN.
This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called
the left hand.
Oft have I been by poets told,
That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old.
Alas, thy numbers failing all,
Poor Jonathan, how they do fall!
Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell,
Now jingle like a rusty bridle:
Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet,
Now limp upon their gouty feet:
Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime,
Are humbled by the tyrant, Time:
Alas! what cannot Time subdue?
Time has reduced my wine and you;
Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings,
Disabled both in our main springs;
So that of late we two are grown
The jest and scorn of all the town.
But yet, if my advice be ta'en,
We two may be as great again;
I'll send you wings, you send me wine;
Then you will fly, and I shall shine.
This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other.
How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex'd her;
Little did she know, I was _ambidexter_.
T. SHERIDAN.
TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN
REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR,
I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school,
in the lower end of St. Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a
Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood
less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself: therefore I
made bold to send you the enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may
qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if
you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one
to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane.
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