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POSTSCRIPT.
Lean Tom, when I saw him, last week, on his horse awry,
Threaten’d loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery.
But, I think, little Dan, that, in spite of what our foe says,
He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphosis.
For omitting the first (where I make a comparison,
With a sort of allusion to Putland[1] or Harrison)
Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is
A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise.
So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul
This teazing, conceited, rude, insolent animal?
And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit,
(For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.
TO DR. SHERIDAN.
ON HIS "ART OF PUNNING."
HAD I ten thousand mouths and tongues,
Had I ten thousand pair of lungs,
Ten thousand sculls with brains to think,
Ten thousand standishes of ink,
Ten thousand hands and pens to write
Thy praise, I'd study day and night.
O may thy work for ever live!
(Dear Tom, a friendly zeal forgive)
