Relates the juftices late meeting there,

How many bottles drank, and what their cheer;
What Lords had been his guefts in days of yore,
And prais'd their wisdom much, their drinking more.
Let travellers the morning vigils keep:

The morning rofe; but we lay fast asleep.
Twelve tedious miles we bore the fultry fun,
And Popham-lane was fcarce in fight by one:
The ftraggling village harbour'd thieves of old,
'Twas here the ftage-coach'd lafs refign'd her gold;
That gold which had in London purchas'd gowns,
And fent her home a Belle to country towns.
But robbers haunt no more the neighb'ring wood;
Here unown'd infants find their daily food;
For fhould the maiden mother nurfe her fon,
'Twould spoil her match when her good name is gone.
Our jolly hostess nineteen children bore,

Nor fail'd her breaft to fuckle nineteen more.

Be juft, ye prudes, wipe off the long arrear;

Be virgins ftill in town, but mothers here.

Sutton we pafs, and leave her spacious down,

And with the setting fun reach Stockbridge town.

O'er our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides,

And the red dainty trout our knife divides.

Sad

Sad melancholy ev'ry vifage wears;

What! no election come in feven long years!
Of all our race of mayors, shall Snow alóne,
Be by Sir Richard's dedication known ?
Our streets no more with tydes of ale fhall float,
Nor coblers feaft three years upon one vote.

Next morn, twelve miles led o'er th' unbounded

plain,

Where the cloak'd fhepherd guides his fleecy train..
No leafy bow'rs a noonday. fhelter lend,
Nor from the chilly dews at night defend;
With wond'rous art he counts the ftraggling flock,
And by the fun informs you what's a clock.
How are our fhepherds fall'n from ancient days!
No Amaryllis chaunts alternate lays!

From her no lift'ning echo's learn to fing,
Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring.

Here sheep the paiture hide, there harvests bend,

See Sarum fteeple o'er yon' hill afcend;
Our horfes faintly trot beneath the heat,

And our keen ftomachs know the hour to eat.
Who can forfake thy walls, and not admire.
The proud cathedral, and the lofty spire..

What

What fempstress has not prov'd thy fciffars good?
From hence first came th' intriguing ridinghood.
Amid three boarding-fchools well-ftock'd with
miffes,

Shall three knights errants ftarve for want of kiffes?
O'er the green turf the miles flide swift away,
And Blandford ends the labours of the day.
The morning rofe; the fupper-reck'ning paid,
And our due fees difcharg'd to man and maid,
The ready oftler near the stirrup stands,
And as we mount our half-pence load his hands.
Now the fteep hill fair Dorchester o'erlooks,
Border'd by meads, and wash'd by filver brooks.
Here fleep my two companions eyes fuppreft,
And propt in elbow chairs they fnoring reft;
I wakeful fit, and with my pencil trace
Their painful postures, and their eyeless face;
Then dedicate each glafs to fome fair name,
And on the fafh the diamond fcrawls my flame.
Now o'er true Roman way our horses found,
Gravius would kneel, and kifs the facred ground.

* There are three boarding-schools in this town,

On

On either fide low fertile valleys lye,
The diftant prospects tire the trav❜ling eye.
Through Bridport's ftony lanes our rout we take,
And the proud fteep defcend to Morcombe's lake.
As hearfes pafs'd, our landlord robb'd the pall,
And with the mournful fcutcheon hung his hall,
On unadult'rate wine we here regale,

And ftrip the lobster of his fcarlet mail.

We climb'd the hills, when ftarry night arofe,
And Axminster affords a kind repofe.
The maid, fubdu'd by fees, her trunk unlocks,
And gives the cleanly aid of dowlas fmocks.
Mean time our fhirts her bufy fingers rub,
While the foap lathers o'er the foaming tub.
If women's geer fuch pleafing dreams incite,
Lend us your fmocks, ye damfels, ev'ry night!
We rife; our beards demand the barber's art;
A female enters, and performs the part.
The weighty golden chain adorns her neck,
And three gold rings her skilful hand bedeck:
Smooth o'er our chin her eafy fingers move,

Soft as when Venus ftroak'd the beard of Jove.
Now from the fteep,'midft fcatter'd cotts and groves,
Our eye thro' Honiton's fair valley roves.
8

Behind

Behind us foon the busy town we leave,
Where finest lace industrious laffes weave.

Now fwelling clouds roll'd on; the rainy load
Stream'd down our hats, and fmoak'd along the road;
When (O bleft fight!) a friendly fign we spy'd,
Our spurs are flacken'd from the horses fide;
For fure a civil hoft the house commands,
Upon whofe fign this courteous motto ftands:
This is the ancient hand, and eke the pen,
Here is for horfes hay, and meat for men.

How rhyme would flourish, did each fon of fame
Know his own genius, and direct his flame!

Then he, that could not epic flights rehearse,

Might sweetly mourn in elegiac verfe.
But were his mufe for elegy unfit,

Perhaps a diftich might not strain his wit;

If epigram offend, his harmless lines

Might in gold letters fwing on ale-house figns.

Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays,

And Tuttle-fields record his fimple lays ;

Where rhymes like thefe might lure the nurses eyes, While gaping infants squawl for farthing pies. Treat here, ye Shepherds blithe, your damfels fweet,

For pies and cheefecakes are for damfels meet;

Then