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Now to apply, begin we then ;
His wand's a modern author's pen ;
The serpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to fleep.
This difference only as the God
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goofequill 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 ?

A D E.

DESCRIPTION

OF

AN

AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

WHERE

HERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each paffing 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 ftretch'd beneath a rug; A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly thew'd the state in which he lay; The fanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pi&tures 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 Thew'd his lamp-black face:

The

1

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
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 in tead of bay,
A cap by night-aftocking all the day!

Τ Η Ε

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