Sir, I Thank You For Your Comedies. I'll Stay And Read 'Em Now At Home A-Days, Because Parcus Wrote But Sorrily Thy Notes, I'll Read Lambinus Thoroughly; And Then I Shall Be Stoutly Set A-Gog To Challenge Every Irish Pedagogue. I Like Your Nice Epistle Critical, Which Does In Threefold Rhymes So Witty Fall; Upon The Comic Dram' And Tragedy Your Notion'S Right, But Verses Maggotty; 'Tis But An Hour Since I Heard A Man Swear It, The Devil Himself Could Hardly Answer It. As For Your Friend The Sage Euripides, I[1] Believe You Give Him Now The Slip O' Days; But Mum For That - Pray Come A Saturday And Dine With Me, You Can't A Better Day: I'll Give You Nothing But A Mutton Chop, Some Nappy Mellow'D Ale With Rotten Hop, A Pint Of Wine As Good As Falern', Which We Poor Masters, God Knows, All Earn; We'll Have A Friend Or Two, Sir, At Table, Right Honest Men, For Few're Comeatable; Then When Our Liquor Makes Us Talkative, We'll To The Fields, And Take A Walk At Eve. Because I'm Troubled Much With Laziness, These Rhymes I've Chosen For Their Easiness.