To Thomas Sheridan Sir, I Cannot But Think That We Live In A Bad Age, O Tempora, O Mores! As 'Tis In The Adage. My Foot Was But Just Set Out From My Cathedral, When Into My Hands Comes A Letter From The Droll. I Can't Pray In Quiet For You And Your Verses; But Now Let Us Hear What The Muse From Your Car Says. Hum - Excellent Good - Your Anger Was Stirr'D; Well, Punners And Rhymers Must Have The Last Word. But Let Me Advise You, When Next I Hear From You, To Leave Off This Passion Which Does Not Become You; For We Who Debate On A Subject Important, Must Argue With Calmness, Or Else Will Come Short On'T. For Myself, I Protest, I Care Not A Fiddle, For A Riddle And Sieve, Or A Sieve And A Riddle; And Think Of The Sex As You Please, I'd As Lieve You Call Them A Riddle, As Call Them A Sieve. Yet Still You Are Out, (Though To Vex You I'm Loth,) For I'll Prove It Impossible They Can Be Both; A School-Boy Knows This, For It Plainly Appears That A Sieve Dissolves Riddles By Help Of The Shears; For You Can't But Have Heard Of A Trick Among Wizards, To Break Open Riddles With Shears Or With Scissars. Think Again Of The Sieve, And I'll Hold You A Wager, You'll Dare Not To Question My Minor Or Major.[1] A Sieve Keeps Half In, And Therefore, No Doubt, Like A Woman, Keeps In Less Than It Lets Out. Why Sure, Mr. Poet, Your Head Got A-Jar, By Riding This Morning Too Long In Your Car: And I Wish Your Few Friends, When They Next See Your Cargo, For The Sake Of Your Senses Would Lay An Embargo. You Threaten The Stocks; I Say You Are Scurrilous And You Durst Not Talk Thus, If I Saw You At Our Ale-House. But As For Your Threats, You May Do What You Can I Despise Any Poet That Truckled To Dan But Keep A Good Tongue, Or You'll Find To Your Smart From Rhyming In Cars, You May Swing In A Cart. You Found Out My Rebus With Very Much Modesty; But Thanks To The Lady; I'm Sure SHe's Too Good To Ye: Till She Lent You Her Help, You Were In A Fine Twitter; You Hit It, You Say; - You're A Delicate Hitter. How Could You Forget So Ungratefully A Lass, And If You Be My Phoebus, Pray Who Was Your Pallas? As For Your New Rebus, Or Riddle, Or Crux, I Will Either Explain, Or Repay It By Trucks; Though Your Lords, And Your Dogs, And Your Catches, Methinks, Are Harder Than Ever Were Put By The Sphinx. And Thus I Am Fully Revenged For Your Late Tricks, Which Is All At Present From The Dean Of St. Patrick'S. From My Closet, Sept, 12, 1718, Just 12 At Noon.