You the famed idol will become,
As gardens graced in ancient Rome,
By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom
of night.[1]
O happy Dan! thrice happy sure!
Thy fame for ever shall endure,
Who after death can love secure
at sight.
So far I thought it was my duty
To dwell upon thy boasted beauty;
Now I'll proceed: a word or two t' ye
in answer
To that part where you carry on
This paradox, that rock and stone
In your opinion, are all one:
How can, sir,
A man of reasoning so profound
So stupidly be run a-ground,
As things so different to confound
t'our senses?
Except you judged them by the knock
Of near an equal hardy block;
Such an experimental stroke
convinces.
Then might you be, by dint of reason,
A proper judge on this occasion;
'Gainst feeling there's no disputation,
is granted:
Therefore to thy superior wit,
Who made the trial, we submit;
Thy head to prove the truth of it
we wanted.
In one assertion you're to blame,
Where Dan and Sherry's made the same,
Endeavouring to have your name
refined, sir:
You'll see most grossly you mistook,
If you consult your spelling-book,
(The better half you say you took,)
you'll find, sir,
S, H, E, she--and R, I, ri,
Both put together make Sherry;
D, A, N, Dan--makes up the three
syllables;
Dan is but one, and Sherry two,
Then, sir, your choice will never do;
Therefore I've turn'd, my friend, on you
the tables.
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