A LETTER TO THE Reverend Dr. SH----N. SIR, W Written in the Year 1718. Hate'er your Predeceffors taught us, hence, More Wit and Humour than from Terence. The Rogue's too Bawdy and too Prophane is. Down in the Strand juft where the new Pole is, * N. B. The Strand in LONDON. The Fact may be falfe, but the Rhyme coft me fome Trouble. He He and Cratinus used, as Horace fays, To take his greatest Grandees for Affes. THUS you may fee, dear Friend, ex pede hence PROCEED to Tragicks, first Euripides Whose moving Touches, when they please, kill us. AND now I find my Muse but ill able I chose these Rhymes out, for their Difficulty. } THE THE Reverend Dr. SH----N D то J. S. D. D. D. S. P. D. EAR Dean, fince in Cruxes and Puns you and I deal, Pray why is a Woman a Sieve and a Riddle? 'Tis a Thought that came into my Noddle this Morning, In bed as I lay, Sir, a toffing and turning. You'll find, if you read but a few of your Hiftories, Not I, by my Troth, Sir.--Then read it again, Sir. * The Dean's Answer. The The Reason I fend you these Lines of Rhymes double, Is purely through pity, to fave you the Trouble Of thinking two Hours for a Rhyme, as you did laft; When your Pegafus canter'd in triple, and rid fast. As for my little Nag, which I keep at Parnaffus With Phabus's Leave, to run with his Affes. He goes flow and fure, and he never is jaded, While your fiery Steed is whipp'd, fpurr'd, basti naded. D--n S----'s Answer то тНЕ Reverend Doctor SH---N. SIR, I N reading your Letter alone in my Hackney, Your damnable Riddle, my poor Brains did rack nigh. And when with much Labour the Matter I crackt, I found you mistaken in Matter of Fact. VOL, VI. A A WOMAN'S no Sieve (for with that you begin) Because she let's out more, than e'er she takes in. And that she's a Riddle, can never be right, For a Riddle is dark, but a Woman is light. But grant her a Sieve, I can fay fomething archer, Pray what is a Man? he's a fine-Linen Searcher. Now tell me a Thing that wants Interpretation, What Name for a Maid, was the firft Man's Damnation? If your Worship will please to explain me this Rebus, I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phabus. From my Hackney-Coach, Sept. 11, 1712. Paft 12 at Noon. * Vir Gin. |