A brain of feather! very right, In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air : And here my simile unites, For in the modern poet's flights, His feet are useful as his head. Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand; By classic authors term'd caduceus, And highly famed for several uses. To wit-most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good; 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, And here my simile almost tript, Well! what of that? out with it—stealing; Are they but senseless stones and blocks? DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, paper, There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 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! |