Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise
Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes,
Like ghost I glide along your floor,
And softly shut the parlour door: 
For, should I break your sweet repose,
Who knows what money you might lose: 
Since oftentimes it has been found,
A dream has given ten thousand pound? 
Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on,
And all you get shall be your own;
Provided you to this agree,
That all you lose belongs to me.

THE DEAN’S ANSWER

So, about twelve at night, the punk
Steals from the cully when he’s drunk: 
Nor is contented with a treat,
Without her privilege to cheat: 
Nor can I the least difference find,
But that you left no clap behind. 
But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye,
My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha’penny
To eat my meat and drink my medlicot,
And then to give me such a deadly cut—­
But ’tis observed, that men in gowns
Are most inclined to plunder crowns. 
Could you but change a crown as easy
As you can steal one, how ’twould please ye! 
I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine’s
Knew how to set you better patterns;
For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3]
And for his victuals, let a ragman dish ’em.

Saturday night.

[Footnote 1:  A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.—­F.]

[Footnote 2:  Lady Mountcashel.—­F.]

[Footnote 3:  Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, for whom the Dean had a great esteem.—­Scott.]

A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN’S SCHOOL.  SPOKEN BY ONE OF THE SCHOLARS

AS in a silent night a lonely swain,
’Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain,
To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes,
And every look finds out a new surprise;
So great’s our wonder, ladies, when we view
Our lower sphere made more serene by you. 
O! could such light in my dark bosom shine,
What life, what vigour, should adorn each line! 
Beauty and virtue should be all my theme,
And Venus brighten my poetic flame. 
The advent’rous painter’s fate and mine are one
Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun;
Majestic light his feeble art defies,
And for presuming, robs him of his eyes. 
Then blame your power, that my inferior lays
Sink far below your too exalted praise: 
Don’t think we flatter, your applause to gain;
No, we’re sincere,—­to flatter you were vain. 
You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied,
And all perfections but your beauties hide. 
Then as you’re fair, we hope you will be kind,
Nor frown on those you see so well inclined
To please you most.  Grant us your smiles, and then
Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.