Free from the business of the bustling day,
This interval indulging, to the Club
Of Spouters I repair; where mortal forms,
Borne high upon the feathers of conceit,
Rise into air; while puffing blasts of wind,
Bursting from loosely-flying Fancy's cave,
Blow them to regions where Theatra dwells.
Here, o'er the summit of a chair I loll;
My circumspective eyes explore the room.
A groupe of staring objects strike my sight;