In all my Enna’s beauties blest, Amidst profusion still I pine; For though she gives me up her breast, Its panting tenant is not mine. [Illustration: EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL.] This tomb, inscrib’d to gentle Parnell’s name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure’s flowery way! Celestial themes confess’d his tuneful aid; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow-- The transitory breath of fame below; More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies. [Illustration: DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER.] 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.[43] 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 chimney-board; A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay, A cap by night--a stocking all the day! FOOTNOTES: [43] The Duke of Cumberland. [Illustration: SONG FROM THE COMEDY OF “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”] SCENE.--_A Room in the Alehouse, “The Three Pigeons.”_ Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning-- Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives _genus_ a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods-- Their Lethes, and Styxes, and Stygians; Their Quis, and their Quæs, and their Quods: They ’re all but a parcel of Pigeons. To-roddle, to-roddle, to-rol. When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I’ll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I’ll leave it to all men of sense-- But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon. To-roddle, &c. [Illustration]