THE shrinking brooks and russet meads complain'd
That Summer's tyrant, fervid Sirius, reign'd;
Full west the sun from heaven descending rode,
And six the shadow on the dial show'd.
Philo, tho' young, to musing much inclin'd,
A shameless sloven, in his gown had din'd,
From table sneaking with a sheepish face,
Before the circle was dismiss'd with grace,
And smoaking now, his desk with books o'erspread,
Thick clouds of incense roll around his head:
His head, which save a quarter's growth of hair,
His woollen cap long since scratch'd off, was bare:
His beard three days had grown, of golden hue,
Black was his shirt, uncomely to the view;
Cross-legg'd he sat, and his ungartered hose
Of each lean limb half hide, and half expose;
His cheek he lean'd upon his hand; below
His nut-brown slipper hung upon his toe.