Thence, o'er wide fhrubby heaths and furrow'd lanes,
We come where Thames divides the meads of Staines.
We ferry'd o'er; for late the winter's flood

Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood.
Prepar❜d for war, now Bagfhot-heath we cross,
Where broken gamesters oft' repair their loss.
At Hartley-row the foaming bit we prest,
While the fat landlord welcom'd every guest.
Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown'd,
Our hoft extoll'd his wine at every round;
Relates the juftices late meeting there,

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

The morning rofe, but we lay faft asleep.
Twelve tedious miles we bore the fultry fun,
And Popham-lane was fcarce in fight by one:
The fraggling village harbour'd thieves of old,
'Twas here the stage-coach'd lass 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 neighbouring wood :
Here unown'd infants find their daily food;
For, fhould the maiden-mother nurfe her fon,
'Twould fpoil her match when her good name is gone.
Our jolly hoftefs nineteen children bore,

Nor fail'd her breast to suckle nineteen more.
Be juft, ye prudes, wipe off the long arrear:
Be virgins ftill in town, but mothers here.

Sutton

Sutton we pals, and leave her fpacious down,
And with the fetting fun reach Stockbridge town.
O'er our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides,
And the red dainty trout our knife divides.
Sad melancholy every vifage wears;

What no election come in feven long years!
Of all our race of Mayors, fhall Snow* alone
Be by Sir Richard's dedication known?

Our streets no more with tides 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 bowers a noon-day fhelter lend,

Nor from the chilly dews at night defend :
With wondrous art, he counts the ftraggling flock,
And by the fun informs you what's o'clock.
How are our fhepherds fall'n from antient days!
No Amaryllis chaunts alternate lays;

From her no listening echos learn to fing,
Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring.
Here sheep the pafture hide, there harvests bend,
See Sarum's steeple o'er yon hill ascend ;
Our horfes faintly trot beneath the heat,

And our keen ftomachs know the hour to eat.

* Sir Richard Steele, member for Stockbridge, wrote a treatise called "The Importance of Dunkirk confi"dered," and dedicated it to Mr. John Snow, Bailiff of Stockbridge. GAY. - Dr. Swift wrote a humourous treatise in answer to it, called "The Importance of the "Guardian confidered, in a Second Letter to the Bailiff "of Stockbridge, 1713," N.

Who can forfake thy walls, and not admire
The proud cathedral, and the lofty fpire?
What fempftrefs has not prov'd thy fciffars good?
From hence first came th' intriguing riding-hood.
Amid three boarding-schools well stock'd with miffes,
Shall three knight-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 reckoning paid,
And our due fees discharg'd to man and maid,
The ready oftler near the flirrup 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 weary fit, and with my pencil trace
Their painful poftures, and their eyclefs face;
Then dedicate cach glass to some fair name,
And on the fah the diamond fcrawls my flame.
Now o'er true Roman way our horfes found,
Grævius would kneel, and kifs the facred ground.
On either fide low fertile valleys lie,

The diftant profpects tire the traveling eye.
Through Bridport's ftony lanes our route 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.

*There are three boarding-fchools in this town. GAY.

On

On unadulterate wine we here regale,

And strip the lobster of his scarlet mail.

We climb'd the hills, when starry night arose, And Axminster affords a kind repofe.

The maid, fubdued by fees, her trunk unlocks,.
And gives the cleanly aid of dowlafs-fmocks.
Mean time our shirts her busy 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, every 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 fkilful hand bedeck:
Smooth o'er our chin her eafy fingers move,
Soft as when Venus ftroak'd the beard of Jove.
Now from the steep, midft fcatter'd farms and groves,,
Our eye through Honiton's fair valley roves.

Behind us foon the bufy town we leave,

Where fineft lace induftrious laffes weave.
Now fwelling clouds roll'd on; the rainy load

Stream'd down our hats, and smoak'd along the road;;
When (O bleft fight !) a friendly fign we spy'd,
Our fpurs are flacken'd from the horses fide;
For fure a civil hoft the house commands,
Upon whofe fign this courteous motto stands,
"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 rehearfe,
Might fweetly mourn in Elegiac verse.
But, were his Mufe for Elegy unfit,
Perhaps a diftich might not ftrain 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 these might lure the nurses' eyes, While gaping infants fquawl for farthing pies:

"Treat here, ye shepherds blithe, your damfels fweet, "For pies and cheesecakes are for damfels meet." Then Maurus in his proper fphere might shine, And these proud numbers grace great William's fign: "This is the man, this the Naffovian, whom "I nam'd the brave deliverer to come *." But now the driving gales fufpend the rain, We mount our steeds, and Devon's city gain. Hail, happy native land! but I forbear, What other counties muft with envy hear.

Blackmore's Prince Arthur, Book V.