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OF

AN 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 cham-
paign,

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, fram'd 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 scor'd, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimneyboard;

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

THE

CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desir'd 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 sav'd! without thinking on asses."

AN ELEGY

ON

THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people all, of ev'ry sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked ev'ry day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

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