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For whilft to th' fhame of flow-endeavoring art
Thy eafy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impreffion took,
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Doft make us marble with too much conceiving;
And fo fepulcher'd in fuch pomp doft lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

XI.

15

On the Univerfity Carrier, who ficken'd in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reafon of the plague *.

HERE lies old, Death in the dirt,

ERE lies old Hobfon; Death hath broke his girt,

Or elfe the ways being foul,

twenty to one, He's here ftuck in a flough, and overthrown.

*We have the following account of this extraordinary man in the Spectator, No. 509. Mr. Tobias Hobfon was a carrier, and the first man in this ifland who let out hackney-horfes. He lived in Cambridge; and obferving that the scholars rid hard, his manner was, to keep a large ftable 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 fay, Mr. Hobfon kept a ftable of forty good cattle, always ready and fit for travelling: but when a man came for a horfe, he was led into the ftable, where there was great choice; but he obliged him to take the horse which stood next to the ftable-door: fo that every customer was alike well ferved, according to his chance, and every horse ridden with the fame juftice. From whence it became a proverb, when what ought to be your election was forced upon you, to fay, Hobfon's choice. This me morable man ftands drawn in fresco at an inn (which he used) in Bishopfgate-street, with an hundred pound bag under his arm, with this infcription upon the faid bag,

The fruitful mother of an hundred more.

'Twas fuch a fhifter, that if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had any time this ten years full,
Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And furely Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd ;
But lately finding him fo 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

5.

10

Show'd him his room where he muft lodge that night, 15
Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light:

If any ask for him, it shall be said,
Hobfon has fupt, and's newly gone to bed.

H

XII.

Another on the fame.

ERE lieth one, who did most truly prove

That he could never die while he could move;

So hung his destiny, never to rot

While he might still jog on and keep his trot,
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.

Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
Gainft old truth) motion number'd out his time:
And like an engin mov'd with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceas'd, he ended ftrait.
Reft 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 hasten'd on his term.

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Merely to drive the time away he ficken'd,

Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd;
Nay, quoth he, on his fooning bed out-ftretch'd,
If I mayn't carry, fure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross doctor's all food hearers,
For one carrier put down to make fix bearers.
Eafe was his chief difeafe, and to judge right,
He dy'd for heavinefs that his cart went light:
His leifure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burdenfome,
That even to his laft breath (there be that fay't)
As he were prefs'd to death, he cry'd more weight;
But had his doings lafted as they were,

He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date,
In.courfe reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the feas,

Yet (ftrange to think) his wain was his increase:

His letters are deliver'd all and gone,

Only remains this fuperfcription.

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XIII.

L'ALLEGRO.

Η

ENCE loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn

'Mong'it horrid fhapes, and fhrieks, and fights unholy,

*This and the following poem are exquifitely beautiful in themfelves, but appear much more beautiful when they are confider'd, as they were written, in contraft to each other. There is a great variety of pleafing images in each of them, and it is remarkable

that