Classic Poem

I cannot but think that we live in a bad age,
O tempora, o mores! as 'tis in the adage.
My foot was but just set out from my cathedral,
When into my hands comes a letter from the droll.
I can't pray in quiet for you and your verses,--
But now let us hear what the muse from your car says.

Hum--excellent good--your anger was stirred:
Well, punners and rhymers must have the last word.
But let me advise you, when next I hear from you,
To leave off this passion which does not become you:
For we who debate on a subject important,
Must argue with calmness, or else will come short on't.
For myself, I protest, I care not a fiddle
For a riddle and sieve, or a sieve and a riddle:
And think of the sex as you please, I'd as lief
You call them a riddle, as call them a sieve.
Yet still you are out (though to vex you I'm loth),
For I'll prove it impossible they can be both.
A schoolboy knows this, for it plainly appears
That a sieve dissolves riddles by help of the shears;
For you can't but have heard of a trick among wizards,
To break open riddles with shears or with scissors.

Think again of the sieve, and I'll hold you a wager,
You dare not to question my minor or major.
A sieve keeps half in, and therefore, no doubt,
Like a woman it keeps in less than it lets out.
Why sure, Mr Poet, your head got a jar
By riding this morning too long in your car:
And I wish your few friends, when they next see your car go,
For the sake of your senses would lay an embargo.

You threaten the stocks: I say you are scurrilous,
And you durst not talk thus if I saw you at our alehouse.
But as for your threats, you may do what you can,
I despise any poet that truckled to Dan.
But keep a good tongue, or you'll find, to your smart,
From rhyming in cars you may swing in a cart.

You found out my rebus with very much modesty;
But thanks to the lady: I'm sure she's too good to ye;
Till she lent you her help, you were in a fine twitter:
You hit it, you say--you're a delicate hitter.
How could you forget so ungratefully a lass?
And if you be my Phoebus, pray who was your Pallas?

As for your new rebus, or riddle, or crux,
I will either explain, or repay it by trucks;
Though your lords, and your dogs, and your catches, methinks,
Are harder than ever were put by the Sphinx.

And thus I am fully revenged for your late tricks,
Which is at present all from

Dean of St Patrick's.