You made me in your last a goose;
I lay my life on't you are wrong,
To raise me by such foul abuse;
My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue;
And slit, just like a bird will chatter,
And like a bird do something more;
When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter,
I'll change you to a black-a-moor.
I'll write while I have half an eye in my head;
I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead.
Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave,
I'll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1]
[Footnote 1; _See post_, p. 351.--_W. E. B._]
SHERIDAN TO SWIFT
I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean,
To see you live, so often slain.
My arrows fly and fly in vain,
But still I try and try again.
I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein;
Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain,
Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean;
I will not tell, because it's plain.
Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane;
If so, from pen and ink refrain.
Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain
For her and you; your life's a scene
Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane,
Enough to crack the strongest brain.
Now to conclude, I do remain,
Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN.
SWIFT TO SHERIDAN
Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance,
Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance.
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