Or under Warren’s bed.
So sleeps the source of Moses’ lays,
So Rowland’s puffs are o’er;
And heads once wreathed in poets’ bays
Are thumped for rhymes no more.
No more by stanzas, songs, and odes,
Warren his blacking sells;
The van alone the carman loads,
The name of Warren tells.
Thus Moses’ muse so seldom wakes;