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!