To Mr. Murray
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,Patron and publisher of rhymes,For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,The unfledged MS. authors come;Thou printest all--and sellest some--My Murray.
Upon thy table's baize so greenThe last new Quarterly is seen,--But where is thy new Magazine,My Murray?
Along thy sprucest bookshelves shineThe works thou deemest most divine--The Art of Cookery, and mine,My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist;And then thou hast the Navy List,My Murray.
And Heaven forbid I should conclude,Without "the Board of Longitude,"Although this narrow paper would,My Murray.
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