Rude martyrs of Sam. Johnson's name,
You rob him of his honest fame,
And tarnish all his glories.

First in the fertile tribe is seen
_Tom Tyres_, in the Magazine,
That teazer of Apollo!
With goose-quill he, like desperate knife,
Slices, as Vauxhall beef, my life,
And calls the town to swallow.

The cry once up, the dogs of news,
Who hunt for paragraphs the stews,
Yelp out "_Johnsoniana!_"
Their nauseous praise but moves my bile,
Like tartar, carduus, camomile,
Or ipecacuanha.

Next Boswell comes, for 'twas my lot
To find at last _one_ honest _Scot_
With constitutional veracity;
Yet garrulous he tells too much,
On fancied failings prone to touch
With sedulous loquacity.

At length, Job's patience it would try,
_Brewed_ on my lees comes "_Thrale's Entrie,"_
Straining to draw my picture;
For _she_ a common-place book kept,
"_Johnson at Streatluim dined and slept,_"