Well may they write, that sit in parlours fine,
To raise their spirits can quaff luscious wine;
To keep out noise, the parlour door is shut;
The servants scarce dare speak, or budge a foot;
Under no fear, no terror, or no task,
But coolly can sit at a writing-desk.
How different with me the time is spent,
Enclosed with dragoons in a little tent;
Some darning stockings, others blacking shoes;
Some singing, others telling jests and news:
Their different sounds do ill confound my writing;
One should be solitary, when inditing;
Yet I must be a bard, naught less will do me,
And so [I] write as nature dictates to me.