Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,
Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits,
Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.
Now soup à la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek,
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak.
While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,”
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.
Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink,
Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,