WHERE the Red Lion flaring o'er the way, <br />Invites each passing stranger that can pay; <br />Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne, <br />Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; <br />There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, <br />The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug; <br />A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, <br />That dimly show'd the state in which he lay; <br />The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; <br />The humid wall with paltry pictures spread: <br />The royal game of goose was there in view, <br />And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; <br />The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, <br />And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black face: <br />The morn was cold, he views with keen desire <br />The rusty grate unconscious of a fire; <br />With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd, <br />And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board; <br />A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, <br />A cap by night-a stocking all the day!<br /><br />Oliver Goldsmith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/description-of-an-author-s-bedchamber/
