An honest Uncle, who had plied His Trade of Mercer in _Cheapside_, Until his Name on _'Change_ was found Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound, Was burdened with an Heir inclined To thoughts of quite a different Kind. His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse From Morn to Night, and, what was worse, He quitted all at length to follow That "sneaking, whey-faced God, APOLLO." In plainer Words, he ran up Bills At _Child's_, at _Batson's_ and at _Will's_; Discussed the Claims of rival Bards At Midnight,--with a Pack of Cards; Or made excuse for "t'other Bottle" Over a point in ARISTOTLE. This could not last, and like his Betters He found, too soon, the _Cost_ of Letters. Back to his Uncle's House he flew, Confessing that he'd not a _Sou_. 'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere, Were more poetical than clear: "Alas!" he said, "I name no Names: The _Muse_, dear Sir, the _Muse_ has claims." His Uncle, who, behind his Till, Knew less of _Pindus_ than _Snow-Hill_, Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say) That Youth but once can have its Day, Equipped anew his _Pride_ and _Hope_ To frisk it on _Parnassus_ Slope. In one short Month he sought the Door More shorn and ragged than before. This Time he showed but small Contrition, And gloried in his mean Condition. "The greatest of our Race," he said, "Through _Asian_ Cities begged his Bread. The _Muse_--the _Muse_ delights to see Not _Broadcloth_ but _Philosophy_! Who doubts of this her Honour shames, But (as you know) she has her Claims...." "Friend," quoth his Uncle then, "I doubt This scurvy Craft that you're about Will lead your _philosophic_ Feet Either to _Bedlam_ or the _Fleet_. Still, as I would not have you lack, Go get some _Broadcloth_ to your Back, And--if it please this precious _Muse_-- 'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes. Though harkye, Sir...." The Youth was gone, Before the good Man could go on. And yet ere long again was seen That Votary of _Hippocrene_. As along _Cheap_ his Way he took, His Uncle spied him by a Brook, Not such as _Nymphs Castalian_ pour,-- 'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more. His Plight was plain by every Sign Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine. He strove to rise, and wagged his Head-- "The _Muse_, dear Sir, the _Muse_--" he said. "_Muse!_" quoth the Other, in a Fury, "The _Muse_ shan't serve you, I assure ye. She's just some wanton, idle _Jade_ That makes young Fools forget their Trade,-- Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will, From _Charing Cross_ to _Ludgate Hill_. She's just...." But he began to stutter, So left SIR GRACELESS in the Gutter. THE 'SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL.