Close to the best known Author, Umbra sits,
The constant Index to all Button 's Wits.
Who's here? cries Umbra: " Only Johnson " — Oh!
Your Slave , and exit ; but returns with Rowe ,
Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of Tragedies:
Not long, Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
Then up comes Steele ; he turns upon his Heel ,
And in a Moment fastens upon Steele .
But cries as soon, Dear Dick, I must be gone ,
For, if I know his Tread, here's Addison.
Says Addison to Steele , 'Tis time to go.
Pope to the Closet steps aside with Rowe .
Poor Umbra , left in this abandon'd Pickle,
E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell .
Fool! 'tis in vain from Wit to Wit to roam;
Know, Sense, like Charity, begins at Home .
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