TO D.' ARBUTHNOT

Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigued I said, Tye up the knocker, say Im sick, Fm dead.

The dog-star rages ! nay *tis past a doubt.

Ail Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out :

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hîde ? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide ; By land, hy water they rencw the charge :

They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Ev n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me :

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy ! to catch me just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson, much bemused in béer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

TRADtJCTIOîS