Muttering half-form’d, half-witted squibs, he’d rove,
Now all the Quarterly’s worst trash indite,
Now woo th’unwilling Grub Street Muse to love.
“One eve we miss’d him on his custom’d round,
Nor at the Board, nor at the House, was he;
Nor ’mid the Courier’s devils was he found,
Nor was he scribbling for the Quarterly.
“The next, to condign doom in due debate,
His annual thousands came, a sad display!
Approach and read, where all may read, their fate,