XI.

On the University Carrier, who ficken'd in the

time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London by reason of the plague *.

HER

a

ER E lies old Hobson; Death hath broke his girt,

And here, alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,

5
Death was half glad, when he had got him down;
For he had any time this ten years full,
Dodg'd with him, becwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And surely Death could never have prevail d,
Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd;
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journey's end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,
In the kind office of a chamberlin

IO

a

* We have the following account of this extraordinary man in the Spectator, No. 509. Mr. Tobias Hobson was a carrier, and the first man in this island, who let out hackney-horses. He lived in Cambridge ; and observing that the scholars rid hard, his manner was, to keep a large stable of horses, with boots, bridles, and whips, to furnish the gentlemen at once, without going from college to college to borrow, as they have done fince the death of this worthy man: I say, Mr. Hobson kept a stable of forty good cattle, always ready and fit for travelling: but, when a man came for a horse, he was led into the stable, where there was great choice ; but he obliged him to take the horse, which stood next to the Itable-door: so that every customer was alike well ferved, according to his chance, and every horse ridden with the fame justice. From whence it became a proverb, when what ought to be your election was forced upon you, to say, Hobson's choice. This memorable man stands drawn in fresco at an inn (which he used) in Bishopsgate-street, with an hundred pound bag under his arm, with this inscription upon the said bag,

The fruitful mother of an hundred more.

Show'd him his room, where he must lodge that night, 15
Pullid off his boots, and took away the light:
If any ak for him, it shall be faid,
Hobson has supt, and's newly gone to bed.

XII.

Another on the same.

ER E one,

Hthat he could never die, while he could move ;

So hung his deftiny, never to rot,
While he might ftill jogg on and keep his trot,
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay,

5
Until his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:
And like an engin mov'd with wheel and weight,
His priociples being ceas'd, he ended strait.

10
Rest,that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation haften’d on his term.
Merely to drive the time away, he fickend,

15
Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd;
Nay, quoth he, on his fooning bed out-stretch'd,
If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
For one carrier put down to make six bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He dy'd for heaviness, that his cart went light:
His leisure told him, that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burdensome,

1

That even to his last breath (there be, that fay't) 25
As he were press’d to death, he cry'd more weight;
But, had his doings lalted, as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the feas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase :
His letters are deliver'd all and gone,
Only remains this superscription.

30

H

XIII.
L'ALLEGRO *.
ENCE loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
In Stygian cave forkorn

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and fights unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell,

5
Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night raven sings ;

There under ebon-hades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

10

* This and the following poem-are exquisitely beautiful in themfelves, but appear much more beautiful, when they are confider’d, as they were written, in contrast to each other. There is a great variety of pleasing images in each of them, and it is remarkable, that the Poet represents several of the fame objects as exciting both mirth and melancholy, and affecting us differently according to the different dispositions and affections of the soul. This is nature and experience. He derives the title of both poems from the Italian, which language was then principally in vogue. L'Allegra is the chearful merry man; and in this poem he describes the . course of mirth in the country and in the city from morning to noon, and from noon till night.

1

zppear much more

beautiful, indet, when apsociated with Handel's fine tinsic