Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/417

Rh A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour — "To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?" Quoth Sandys, "To waste paper."

CLOSE to the best known author U sits, The constant index to all Button's wits. "Who's here?" cries U: "only Johnson" — "O! "Your slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe: "Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies:" Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies. Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment fastens upon Steele; But cries as soon, "Dear Dick, I must be gone, For, if I know his tread, here's Addison." Says Addison to Steele, "'Tis time to go:" Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe. Poor U, left in this abandon'd pickle, E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell. Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam; Know, sense like charity "begins at home." DUKE