Siste, viator! let me set you right,
’Tis not the day! I hail returning night:
Through lamp and link-boys take my devious way,
Streets, carts, and “Bill, your honour!” to the play.
There point my quill, “shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the living manners as they rise.”[3]
Sooner shall Gallia cease her hostile fury,
Sooner shall mighty George frequent old Drury,
In modern bosoms virtuous ardour burn,
Or loan-contractors zealous patriots turn,
Than I forego the critic’s choicest food,
To lash the worthless and to praise the good.