Now to apply, begin we then;
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The ferpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;

Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy flaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to fleep.
This difference only as the God
Drove fouls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my fimile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But ev'n this deity's existence
Shall lend my fimile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks ?

ADE..

A

DESCRIPTION

OF AN

-CHAMBER

AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram'd with lifting, found a place,
And brave prince William shew'd his lamp-black face:

The

The morn was cold, he views with keen defire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire :
With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd tea cups dress'd the chimney board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

THE

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