d as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick.
Miss Morice was (I can assure you 'tis true) sick:
For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick?
Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick,
Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick.
Nor is old Nanny Shales,[4] whene'er she does brew, sick.
My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick,
And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick:
But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick:
And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick:
For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick,
And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick.
Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick;
But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick,
And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick.
So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick;
You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick;
So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.

[Footnote 1: This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a
specimen of those _bagatelles_ for which the Dean hath perhaps been too
severely censured.--_H._]

[Footnote 2: Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and Natural
Philosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath,
Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as "the most eminent
physician in this city and kingdom." He was one of the brilliant literary
coterie in Dublin at that period. He died in 1738.--_W. E. B._.]

[Footnote 3: St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia's
day was usually performed.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: _Vide_ Grattan, _inter_ Belchamp and Clonshogh.--_Dublin
Edition._]

TO DR. SHERIDAN

Nov. 23, at night.

If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick.
This night I came home with a very cold dew sick,
And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick;
But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick,
Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER

The Doctor's first rhyme would make any Jew sick:
I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick,
For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick,
Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick:
Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick's did spew sick:
And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick,
The surgeon who bled her his lancet out drew sick,
And stopp'd the distemper, as being but new sick.
The yacht, the last storm, had all her whole cre