BELL's BOOK-STORE

Just by St. Paul's, where dry divines rehearse, Bell keeps his store for vending prose and verse, And books that's neither—for no age nor clime, Lame languid prose begot on hobb'ling ryme.

Here authors meet who ne'er a sprig have got, The poet, player, doctor, wit and sot; Smart politicians wrangling here are seen, Condemning Jeffries or indulging spleen, Reproving Congress or amending laws, Still fond to find out blemishes and flaws; Here harmless sentimental-mongers join To praise some author or his wit refine, Or treat the mental appetite with lore From Plato's, Pope's and Shakespear's endles store: Young blushing writers, eager for the bays, Try here the merit of their new-born lays, Seek for a patron, follow fleeting fame, And begs the slut may raise their hidden name.

Poor helpless race of mortals here below! With hearts to feel and melt for others woe: Harmless, oft' useless; indolent, oft' vain; How very few have found with genius gain! How very few hath genius raised from want!— Fortune to genius deals her favours scant. 'Tis ten to one had genius fir'd my breast, I had been poor and needy like the rest, Pinch'd for a meal, or for a dollar su'd, By some mean creditor with feelings rude; But thanks to fortune for her shining store. I'm rich enough and seldom wish for more.