Mary the Cook-Maid's LETTER TO Dr. SHERIDAN

Well; if ever I saw such another Man since my Mother bound my Head, You a Gentleman! marry come up, I wonder where you were bred? I am sure such Words does not become a Man of your Cloth, I would not give such Language to a Dog, faith and troth. Yes; you call'd my Master a Knave: Fie Mr. Sheridan, 'tis a Shame For a Parson, who shou'd know better Things, to come out with such a Name. Knave in your Teeth, Mr. Sheridan, 'tis both a Shame and a Sin, And the Dean my Master is an honester Man than you and all your kin: He has more goodness in his little Finger, than you have in your whole Body, My Master is a parsonable Man, and not a spindle-shank'd hoddy doddy. And now whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my Master one Day in anger call'd you Goose. Which, and I am sure I have been his Servant four Years since October, And he never call'd me worse than Sweetheart drunk or sober: Not that I know his Reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, Tho' you and your Come-rogues keep him out so late in your Colledge. You say you will eat Grass on his Grave: a Christian eat Grass! Whereby you now confess your self to be a Goose or on Ass: But that's as much as to say, that my Master should die before ye, Well, well, that's as God pleases, and I don't believe that's a true Story, And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my Master; what care I? And I don't care who knows it, 'tis all one to Mary. Every body knows, that I love to tell Truth and shame the Devil, I am but a poor Servant, but I think Gentlefolks should be civil. Besides, you found fault with our Vittles one Day that you was here, I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all Days in the Year. And Saunders the Man says, you are always jesting and mocking, Mary said he (one Day, as I was mending my Master's Stocking,) My Master is so fond of that Minister that keeps the School; I thought my Master a wise Man, but that Man makes him a Fool. Saunders said I, I would rather than a Quart of Ale, He would come into our Kitchen, and I would pin a Dish-clout to his Tail. And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this Letter, For I write but a sad Scrawl, but my Sister Marget she writes better. Well, but I must run and make the Bed before my Master comes from Pray'rs, And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up Stairs: Whereof I cou'd say more to your Verses, if I cou'd write written hand, And so I remain in a civil way, your Servant to command