Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/415

Rh Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth! Like puppy tame, that uses To fetch and carry in his mouth The works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write poetry, That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity To rhyming and the devil?

A desk he had of curious work, With glittering studs about; Within the same did Sandys lurk, Though Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, Forth popp'd the sprite so thin, And from the keyhole bolted out All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, And ruff compos'd most duly, This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely.

Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite, Write on, nor let me scare ye; Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right, To Budgel seek, or Carey.

I hear the beat of Jacob's drums, Poor Ovid finds no quarter! See