Shut,
shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dog-star rages! nay
'tis past a doubt,
All 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 hide?
They pierce my thickets,
through my grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they
board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free;
Even 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.
