The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Umbra

by Jonathan Swift

UMBRA.

CLOSE to the best known author Umbra sits,
The constant index to all Button's wits.
"Who's here?" cries Umbra: "only Johnson" — "O!
"Your slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe:
"Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies:"
Ere 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."