OF MY LITERARY LIFE. 
‘FRIEND 
¢ YOU, you in fiery purgat’ry muft flay 
« Till gall, and ink, and dirt of feribbling day 
‘ Tn purifying flames are purg’d away. 
‘TRAVELLER. 
< © truft me, dear D ***, I ne’er would offend 
¢ One pious divine, one virtuous friend : 
« From nature alone are my characters drawn, 
¢ From little Bob Ferom to bifhops in lawn.’ 
O truft me, dear friend, I never did think on 
The holies who dwell near th’ o’erlooker of Lincola. 
Not a prelate or prieft did e’er haunt my flumber, 
Who inftructively teach betwixt Yxveeda and Humber 
Nor in fouth, eaft, or weft do I ftigmatife any 
Who ftick to their texts, and thofe are the MANY. 
But when crofling and joftling come queer men of G-d, 
In rufty brown coats, and waiftcoats of plaid, 
With greafy cropt hair, and hats cut to the quick, 
Tight white leathern breaches, and truncheon-like fick; 
Clear of all that is facred from bowfprit to poop, fir; 
Who prophane like a pagan, and fwear like a trooper; 
Who fhine in the cock-pit, on turf and in ftable, 
And are the prime bucks and arch wags of each table; 
‘Who, if they e’er deign to thump drum ecclefiattic, 
Spout new-fangled doétrine, enough to make man fick ; 
And lay down as gofpel, but not from their Bibles, 
That good-natur’d vices are nothing but foibles; 
And vice are refining, till vice is no more, 
From taking a bottle to taking a ** * * *, 
“Fhen 
