"Alas! young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I;
Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try,"
"What I! dear Sir," the doctor interposes;
"What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
No, no, I've other contests to maintain;
To-night I heard our troops at Warwick-lane.
Go ask your manager"—"Who, me! Your pardon,
Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden."
Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance,