  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:43The Duke of Cumberland. |
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