And when with much labour the matter I crack'd,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.
A woman's no sieve, (for with that you begin,)
Because she lets out more than e'er she takes in.
And that she's a riddle can never be right,
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light.
But grant her a sieve, I can say something archer;
Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher.
Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation,
What name for a maid,[1] was the first man's damnation?
If your worship will please to explain me this rebus,
I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus.
From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11, 1718, past 12 at noon.
[Footnote 1: A damsel, _i.e._, _Adam's Hell_.--_H._ Vir Gin.--_Dublin
Edition._]
DR. SHERIDAN'S REPLY TO THE DEAN
Don't think these few lines which I send, a reproach,
From my Muse in a car, to your Muse in a coach.
The great god of poems delights in a car,
Which makes him so bright that we see him from far;
For, were he mew'd up in a coach, 'tis allow'd
We'd see him no more than we see through a cloud.
You know to apply this--I do not disparage
Your lines, but I say they're the worse for the carriage.
Now first you deny that a woman's a sieve;
I say that she is: What reason d'ye give?
Because she lets out more than she takes in.
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