I rise about nine, get to breakfast by ten,
Blow a tune on my flute, or perhaps make a pen;
Read a play till eleven, or cock my laced hat;
Then step to my neighbours, till dinner, to chat.
Dinner over, to _Tom's_, or to _James's_ I go,
The news of the town so impatient to know,
While _Law_, _Locke_ and _Newton_, and all the rum race,
That talk of their nodes, their ellipses, and space,
The seat of the soul, and new systems on high,
In holes, as abstruse as their mysteries, lie.
From the coffee-house then I to Tennis away,
And at five I post back to my College to pray:
I sup before eight, and secure from all duns,
Undauntedly march to the _Mitre_ or _Tuns_;
Where in punch or good claret my sorrows I drown,
And toss off a bowl "To the best in the town:"
At one in the morning I call what's to pay,
Then home to my College I stagger away;
Thus I tope all the night, as I trifle all day.
* * * * *