All their religion will be spent About thy woven monument, And not one orison be sent to Jove, sir.
You the famed idol will become, As gardens graced in ancient Rome, By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom of night.[1]
O happy Dan! thrice happy sure! Thy fame for ever shall endure, Who after death can love secure at sight.
So far I thought it was my duty To dwell upon thy boasted beauty; Now I'll proceed: a word or two t' ye in answer
To that part where you carry on This paradox, that rock and stone In your opinion, are all one: How can, sir,
A man of reasoning so profound So stupidly be run a-ground, As things so different to confound t'our senses?
Except you judged them by the knock Of near an equal hardy block; Such an experimental stroke convinces.
Then might you be, by dint of reason, A proper judge on this occasion; 'Gainst feeling there's no disputation, is granted:
Therefore to thy superior wit, Who made the trial, we submit; Thy head to prove the truth of it we wanted.
In one assertion you're to blame, Where Dan and Sherry's made the same, Endeavouring to have your name refined, sir:
You'll see most grossly you mistook, If you consult your spelling-book, (The better half you say you took,) you'll find, sir,
S, H, E, she--and R, I, ri, Both put together make Sherry; D, A, N, Dan--makes up the three syllables;
Dan is but one, and Sherry two, Then, sir, your choice will never do; Therefore I've turn'd, my friend, on you the tables.
[Footnote 1: Priapus, the god of procreation and fertility, both human and agricultural, whose statues, painted red, were placed in gardens. Confer Horat., Sat. I, viii, 1-8; Virg., "Georg.", iv, 110-11. In India, the same deity is to be seen in retired parts of the gardens, as he is described by Horace--"ruber porrectus ab inguine palus"--and where he is worshipped by the matrons for the same reason.--_W. E. B._]
Assist me, my Muse, while I labour to limn him. _Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae persimilem._ You look and you write with so different a grace, That I envy your verse, though I did not your face. And to him that thinks rightly, there's reason enough, 'Cause one is as smooth as the other is rough. But much I'm amazed you should think my design Was to rhyme down your nose, or your harlequin grin, Which you yourself wonder the de'el should malign. And if 'tis so strange, that your monstership's crany Should be envied by him, much less by Delany; Though I own to you, when I consider it stricter, I envy the painter, although not the picture. And justly she's envied, since a fiend of Hell Was never drawn right but by her and Raphael. Next, as to the charge, which you tell us is true, That we were inspired by the subject we drew. Inspired we were, and well, sir, you knew it; Yet not by your nose, but the fair one that drew it; Had your nose been the Muse, we had ne'er been inspired, Though perhaps it might justly 've been said we were fired, As to the division of words in your staves, Like my countryman's horn-comb, into three halves, I meddle not with 't, but presume to make merry, You call'd Dan one half, and t'other half Sherry: Now if Dan's a half, as you call't o'er and o'er, Then it can't be denied that Sherry's two more. For pray give me leave to say, sir, for all you, That Sherry's at least of double the value. But perhaps, sir, you did it to fill up the verse; So crowds in a concert (like actors in farce) Play two parts in one, when scrapers are scarce. But be that as 'twill, you'll know more anon, sir, When Sheridan sends to merry Dan answer.