MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DOCTOR SHERIDAN, 1723 by JONATHAN SWIFT

WELL! if ever I saw such another man, since my mother bound my head!
You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred?
I am sure such words do not become a man of your cloth!
I would not give such language to a dog! faith and troth!
Yes, you called my master a knave! Fie! Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame
For a parson, who should know better things, to come out
with such a name.
Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'Tis both a shame and a sin;
And the dean, my master, in an honester man than you and all your kin:
He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in
your whole body!
My master is a parsonable man, and not a spindle-shanked hoddydoddy!
And now whereby I find you would fain make an excuse.
Because my master, one day, in anger, called you goose!
Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October,
And be never called me worse than sweetheart drunk or sober.

Nor that I know that his Reverence was ever concerned, to
my know-ledge;
Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late, in your College.
You say you will eat grass on his grave: a Christian eat grass!
Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose, or an ass.
But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye.
Well! Well! That's as God pleases, and I don't believe
that's a true story!
And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master! What care I?
And I don't care who knows it, 'tis all one to Mary!
Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the Devil;
I am but a poor servant; but I think Gentlefolks should be vivil!

Besides, you found fault with our vittels, one day that
you were here:
I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all days in the year!
And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking,
'Mary,' said he, one day, as I was mending my master's stocking,
'My master is so fond of that minister, that keeps the school!
I thought my master was a wise man; but that man makes him a fool!'
'Saunders,' says I, 'I would rather than a quart of ale,
He would come into our kitchen; and I would pin a
dish-clout to his tail!'
And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter.
For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget, she writes better.
Well! but I must run, and make the bed, before my master
comes from prayers.
And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming upstairs.
Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write
written hand;
And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to command,--Mary.

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