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]--there's 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.
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