Near to the wardrobe stairs, one story high,
Where ermined robes and jewels caught the eye;
Dull is that dressing-room—by Quin inspir’d,
Where, once, choice wits after the play retir’d;
When play-house statesmen talk’d, with looks profound,
And apt quotations—meant for wit—went round;
Imagination fondly stoops to trace,
The tinsell’d splendours of the motley place;
The warlike truncheon, prone upon the floor,
The herald’s coat, that hung behind the door: