VERSES BY SHERIDAN

When to my house you come, dear Dean,
Your humble friend to entertain,
Through dirt and mire along the street,
You find no scraper for your feet;
At which you stamp and storm and swell,
Which serves to clean your feet as well. 
By steps ascending to the hall,
All torn to rags by boys and ball,
With scatter’d fragments on the floor;
A sad, uneasy parlour door,
Besmear’d with chalk, and carved with knives,
(A plague upon all careless wives,)
Are the next sights you must expect,
But do not think they are my neglect. 
Ah that these evils were the worst! 
The parlour still is farther curst. 
To enter there if you advance,
If in you get, it is by chance. 
How oft by turns have you and I
Said thus—­“Let me—­no—­let me try—­
This turn will open it, I’ll engage”—­
You push me from it in a rage. 
Turning, twisting, forcing, fumbling,
Stamping, staring, fuming, grumbling,
At length it opens—­in we go—­
How glad are we to find it so! 
Conquests through pains and dangers please,
Much more than those attain’d with ease. 
Are you disposed to take a seat;
The instant that it feels your weight,
Out goes its legs, and down you come
Upon your reverend deanship’s bum. 
Betwixt two stools, ’tis often said,
The sitter on the ground is laid;
What praise then to my chairs is due,
Where one performs the feat of two! 
Now to the fire, if such there be,
At present nought but smoke we see. 
“Come, stir it up!”—­“Ho, Mr. Joker,
How can I stir it without a poker?”
“The bellows take, their batter’d nose
Will serve for poker, I suppose.” 
Now you begin to rake—­alack
The grate has tumbled from its back—­
The coals all on the hearth are laid—­
“Stay, sir—­I’ll run and call the maid;
She’ll make the fire again complete—­
She knows the humour of the grate.” 
“Pox take your maid and you together—­
This is cold comfort in cold weather.” 
Now all is right again—­the blaze
Suddenly raised as soon decays. 
Once more apply the bellows—­“So—­
These bellows were not made to blow—­
Their leathern lungs are in decay,
They can’t even puff the smoke away.” 
“And is your reverence vext at that,
Get up, in God’s name, take your hat;
Hang them, say I, that have no shift;
Come blow the fire, good Doctor Swift. 
If trifles such as these can tease you,
Plague take those fools that strive to please you. 
Therefore no longer be a quarrel’r
Either with me, sir, or my parlour. 
If you can relish ought of mine,
A bit of meat, a glass of wine,
You’re welcome to it, and you shall fare
As well as dining with the mayor.” 
“You saucy scab—­you tell me so! 
Why, booby-face, I’d have you know
I’d rather see your things in order,
Than dine in state with the recorder.