An Author's Bedchamber

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER WHERE the Red Lion flaring 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, 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 teacups dress'd the chimney board; A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night--a stocking all the day!