MR. ROCHFORT’S REPLY

You say your face is better hung
Than ours—­by what? by nose or tongue? 
In not explaining you are wrong
      to us, sir.

Because we thus must state the case,
That you have got a hanging face,
Th’ untimely end’s a damn’d disgrace
      of noose, sir.

But yet be not cast down:  I see
A weaver will your hangman be: 
You’ll only hang in tapestry
      with many;

And then the ladies, I suppose,
Will praise your longitude of nose,
For latent charms within your clothes,
      dear Danny.

Thus will the fair of every age
From all parts make their pilgrimage,
Worship thy nose with pious rage
      of love, sir: 

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.]