A

LETTER

TO THE

Reverend Dr. SH----N.

SIR,

W

Written in the Year 1718.

Hate'er your Predeceffors taught us,
I have a great Esteem for Plautus;
And think your Boys may gather there-

hence,

More Wit and Humour than from Terence.
But as to Comic Aristophanes,

The Rogue's too Bawdy and too Prophane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis,

Down in the Strand juft where the new Pole is,
For I can tell you one Thing, that I can,
You will not find it in the Vatican.

* 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.
Poets, in thofe Days, us'd to venture high,
But these are loft full many a Century.

THUS you may fee, dear Friend, ex pede hence
My Judgment of the old Comedians.

PROCEED to Tragicks, first Euripides
(An Author, where I fometimes dip a-Days)
Is rightly cenfur'd by the Stagirite,
Who fays, his Numbers do not fadge a-right.
A Friend of mine, that Author defpifes
So much, he swears the very best Piece is
For ought he knows, as bad as Thefpis's.
And that a Woman, in those Tragedies
Commonly speaking, but a fad Jade is.
At least, I'm well affured, that no Folk lays
The Weight on him, they do on Sophocles.
But above all I prefer Æfchylus,

Whose moving Touches, when they please, kill us.

AND now I find my Muse but ill able
To hold out longer in Tryfyllable.

I chose these Rhymes out, for their Difficulty.
Will you return as hard ones, if I call t'ye?

}

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,
All Women, as Eve, all Women are Mysteries.
To find out this Riddle, I know you'll be eager,
And make every one of the Sex a Bell-phagor.
But that will not do, for I mean to come-mend 'em,
I swear without Jeft, I an Honour intend 'em,
In a Sieve, Sir, their ancient Extraction I quite tell,
In a Riddle I give you their Power and their Title.
This I told you before, do you know what I mean,
Sir?

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.