Each in his chamber on a pillow laid,
The law-learn’d Benchers of the Temple sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The sheriff’s trumpet, or the postman’s horn
No more shall rouse them from their feather bed.
In them no more the muse’s fire shall burn,
Or metaphysics be their ev’ning care;
No school-boy’s classic triumphs shall return,
Or dulness pine the envied praise to share.