To live by one's pate,

And be forced to write hackney for bread!
An author's a joke
To all manner of folk,
Wherever he pops up his head, his head,
Wherever he pops up his head.

Tho' he mount on that hack,
Old Pegasus' back,
And of Helicon drink till he burst,
Yet a curse of those streams,
Poetical dreams,
They never can quench one's thirst, &c.

Ah! how should he fly
On fancy so high,
When his limbs are in durance and hold?
Or how should he charm,
With genius so warm,
When his poor naked body's a cold, &c.




SCENE IV.--BOOKWEIGHT, DASH, QUIBBLE, BLOTPAGE.


_Book_. Fie upon it, gentlemen! what, not at your pens? Do you
consider, Mr Quibble, that it is a fortnight since your Letter to a