And these, I must tell ye,
Are bigger than its belly;--
You know, there's 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.]
ANOTHER REPLY, BY SHERIDAN
My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise
Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes;
As the Dean of St. Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies!
I cannot lie down, but immediately rise,
To answer your stuff and the Doctor's likewise.
Like a horse with a gall, I'm pester'd with flies,
But his head and his tail new succour supplies,
To beat off the vermin from back, rump, and thighs.
The wing of a goose before me now lies,
Which is both shield and sword for such weak enemies.
Whoever opposes me, certainly dies,
Though he were as valiant as Conde or Guise.
The women disturb me a-crying of pies,
With a voice twice as loud as a horse when he neighs.
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