A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen,
From magazine of standish
Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean,
Than any sword we brandish.
My ink's my flash, my pen's my bolt;
Whene'er I please to thunder,
I'll make you tremble like a colt,
And thus I'll keep you under.
THOMAS SHERIDAN.
TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S
Dear Dean, I'm in a sad condition,
I cannot see to read or write;
Pity the darkness of thy Priscian,
Whose days are all transform'd to night.
My head, though light, 's a dungeon grown,
The windows of my soul are closed;
Therefore to sleep I lay me down,
My verse and I are both composed.
Sleep, did I say? that cannot be;
For who can sleep, that wants his eyes?
My bed is useless then to me,
Therefore I lay me down to rise.
Unnumber'd thoughts pass to and fro
Upon the surface of my brain;
In various maze they come and go,
And come and go again.
So have you seen in sheet burnt black,
The fiery sparks at random run;
Now here, now there, some turning back
Some ending where they just begun.
THOMAS SHERIDAN.
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.
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