here, now there, some turning back
Some ending where they just begun.
THOMAS SHERIDAN.

AN ANSWER, BY DELANY, TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

Dear Sherry, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded sore eye,
And the more I consider your case, still the more I
Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye.
Besides, the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye,
In pity cry out, "He's a poor blinded Tory."
But listen to me, and I'll soon lay before ye
A sovereign cure well attested in Gory.
First wash it with _ros_, that makes dative _rori_,
Then send for three leeches, and let them all gore ye;
Then take a cordial dram to restore ye,
Then take Lady Judith, and walk a fine boree,
Then take a glass of good claret _ex more_,
Then stay as long as you can _ab uxore_;
And then if friend Dick[1] will but ope your back-door, he
Will quickly dispel the black clouds that hang o'er ye,
And make you so bright, that you'll sing tory rory,
And make a new ballad worth ten of John Dory:
(Though I work your cure, yet he'll get the glory.)
I'm now in the back school-house, high up one story,
Quite weary with teaching, and ready to _mori_.
My candle's just out too, no longer I'll pore ye,
But away to Clem Barry's,[2]--there's an end of my story.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]

[Footnote 2: See "The Country Life," i, 140.]

A REPLY, BY SHERIDAN, TO DELANY

I like your collyrium,
Take my eyes, sir, and clear ye 'um,
'Twill gain you a great reputation;
By this you may rise,
Like the doctor so wise,[1]
Who open'd the eyes of the nation.

And these, I must tell ye,
Are bigger than its belly;--
You know, there's in Livy a story
Of the hands and the feet
Denying of meat,--
Don't I write in the dark like a Tory?

Your water so far goes,
'Twould serve for an Argus,
Were all his whole hundred sore;
So many we read
He had in his head,
Or Ovid's a son of a whore.

For your recipe, sir,
May my lids never stir,
If ever I think once to fee you;
For I'd have you to know,
When abroad I can go,
That it's honour enough, if I see you.

[Footnote 1: Probably Dr. Davenant.]

ANOTHER REPLY, BY SHERIDAN

My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise
Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes;
As the Dean of St. Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies!
I cannot lie down, but immediately rise,
To answer your stuff and the Doctor's likewise.
Like a horse with a gall, I'm pester'd with flies,
But h