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For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twined
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 sleep.
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf
Instead of others damns himself.

And here my simile almost tripp'd,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury 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 e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards ! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

DESCRIPTION

OF

AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER.

Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne,
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 show'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, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black face;
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimneyboard:
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

THE

CLOWN'S REPLY.

John TROTT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears? An't please you," quoth John, “ I'm not given to

letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.”

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