To The Dean Of St. Patrick'S

SIR, Your Billingsgate Muse methinks does begin With much greater noise than a conjugal din. A pox of her bawling, her tempora et mores! What are times now to me; a'nt I one of the Tories? You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers; Oh, oh, Mr. Dean, are you there with your bears? You pray, I suppose, like a Heathen, to Phoebus, To give his assistance to make out my rebus: Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future; When the combat is equal, this God should be neuter. I'm now at the tavern, where I drink all I can, To write with more spirit; I'll drink no more Helicon; For Helicon is water, and water is weak; 'Tis wine on the gross lee, that makes your Muse speak. This I know by her spirit and life; but I think She's much in the wrong to scold in her drink. Her damn'd pointed tongue pierced almost to my heart; Tell me of a cart,—tell me of a——, I'd have you to tell on both sides her ears, If she comes to my house, that I'll kick her down stairs: Then home she shall limping go, squalling out, O my knee; You shall soon have a crutch to buy for your Melpomene. You may come as her bully, to bluster and swagger; But my ink is my poison, my pen is my dagger: Stand off, I desire, and mark what I say to you, If you come I will make your Apollo shine through you. Don't think, sir, I fear a Dean, as I would fear a dun; Which is all at present from yours, THOMAS SHERIDAN.