Classic Poem

It never was known that circular letters,
By humble companions were sent to their betters:
And, as to the subject, our judgement mehercle
Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle.
But now for your verses; we tell you, imprimis,
The segment so large 'twixt your reason and rhyme is,
That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound,
And, before we find either, our noddles turn round.
Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant,
To give us your measure of lines by quadrant.
But we took our dividers, and found your damned metre,
In each single verse, took up a diameter.
But how, Mr Sheridan, came you to venture
George, Dan, Dean and Nim to place in the centre?
'Twill appear, to your cost, you are fairly trepanned,
For the cord of your circle is now in their hand;
The cord, or the radius, it matters not whether,
By which your jade Pegasus fixed in a tether,
As his betters are used, shall be lashed round the ring,
Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds the string.
Will Hancock declares you are out of your compass,
To encroach on his art by writing of bombas';
And has taken just now a firm resolution
To answer your style without circumlocution.

Lady Betty presents you her service most humble,
And is not afraid your worship will grumble,
That she makes of your verses a hoop for Miss Tam,
Which is all at present; and so I remain--