Therewith in second sight he saw The place and the manner and time, In which this mortal story Would be put in immortal rhyme. That it would happen when two poets Should on a time be met, In the town of Nether Stowey, In the shire of Somerset. There while the one was shaving Would he the song begin; And the other when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in. So each would help the other, Two heads being better than one; And the phrase and conceit Would in unison meet, And so with glee the verse flow free, In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, Till the whole were merrily done. And because it was set to the razor, Not to the lute or harp, Therefore it was that the fancy Should be bright, and the wit be sharp. But, then, said Satan to himself As for that said beginner, Against my infernal Majesty, There is no greater sinner. He hath put me in ugly ballads With libelous pictures for sale; He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail. But this Mister Poet shall find I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him. He went to a coffee-house to dine, And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish. They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man. But the soles in the bill were ten shillings; Tell your master, quoth he, what I say; If he charges at this rate for all things, He must be in a pretty good way. But mark ye, said he to the waiter, I'm a dealer myself in this line, And his business, between you and me, Nothing like so extensive as mine. Now soles are exceedingly cheap, Which he will not attempt to deny, When I see him at my fish-market, I warrant him, by-and-by. As he went along the Strand Between three in the morning and four He observed a queer-looking person Who staggered from Perry's door. And he thought that all the world over In vain for a man you might seek, Who could drink more like a Trojan Or talk more like a Greek. The Devil then he prophesied It would one day be matter of talk, That with wine when smitten, And with wit moreover being happily bitten, The erudite bibber was he who had written The story of this walk. A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil; A pretty mistake I opine! I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth, He will never put good ones in mine. And whoever shall say that to Porson These best of all verses belong, He is an untruth-telling whore-son, And so shall be call'd in the song.