To write fresh strictures on the fighting Jew.
Now the whole house a solemn stillness holds,
Save from the staircase head, with noisy tongue,
My landlady inexorably scolds,
And with shrill clamours interrupts my song.
Beneath a heap of rude waste paper plac’d,
(Alas that Grub-street Bards so soon should die!)
The writings of my brethren are disgrac’d,
Or, doom’d to chandlers-shops, neglected lie.