The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/Epistle to Two Friends

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The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8
(1731)
by Jonathan Swift, edited by Thomas Sheridan, John Nichols, John Boyle, Patrick Delany, John Hawkesworth, Deane Swift, William Bowyer, John Birch, and George Faulkner

Epistle to two Friends

Dr. Helsham's Answer

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The next poem, Dr. Helsham's Answer, is a response to this poem.

1568259The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8
— Epistle to two Friends1731Jonathan Swift

AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS^[1].

TO DR. HELSHAM^[2].

SIR,

Nov. 23, at night, 1731.

WHEN I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick;
I'm so full of pity, I never abuse sick;
And the patientest patient ever you knew sick:
Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick.
I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick:
She mended at first, but now she's anew sick.
Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick.
Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick.
Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick?
Lady Santry got out of the church when she grew sick,
And, as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick.
Miss Morice was (I can you assure 'tis true) sick:
For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick?
Such musick would make a fanatick or Jew sick,
Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick.
Nor is old Nanny Shales, whene'er she does brew, sick.
My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick,
And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick;
But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick:
And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick;
For the smell of them made me like garlick and rue sick,
And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick.
Yet hop'd to find many (for that was your cue) sick;
But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick,
And those to be sure, stuck together like glew, sick.
So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick;
You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick;
So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.

TO DR. SHERIDAN.

⁠IF I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick.
This night I came home with a very cold dew sick.
And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick;
But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick,
Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

↑ This medley (for it cannot be called a poem) is given as a specimen of those bagatelles for which the dean hath perhaps been too severely censured.
↑ Richard Helsham, M. D. professor of physick and natural philosophy in the university of Dublin. See the Preface to Delany on Polygamy.

[1] This medley (for it cannot be called a poem) is given as a specimen of those bagatelles for which the dean hath perhaps been too severely censured.

[2] Richard Helsham, M. D. professor of physick and natural philosophy in the university of Dublin. See the Preface to Delany on Polygamy.

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