Sad melancholy ev'ry vifage wears; What! no election come in feven long years! Our streets no more with tides of ale fhall float, Next morn, twelve miles led o'er th' unbounded plain, Where the cloak'd fhepherd guides his fleecy train. From her no lift'ning echo's learn to fing, Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring. Here fheep the pasture hide, there harvefts bend, See Sarum steeple o'er yon' hill afcend; And our keen ftomachs know the hour to eat. What What sempftress has not prov'd thy sciffars good? Shall three knights errants starve for want of kisses? There are three boarding-Schools in this town, On On either fide low fertile valleys lye, The diftant profpects tire the trav'ling eye. And ftrip the lobster of his scarlet mail. We climb'd the hills, when ftarry night arofe, Soft as when Venus ftroak'd the beard of Joue. Behind us foon the busy town we leave, Where finest lace industrious lasses weave. Now fwelling clouds roll'd on; the rainy load How rhyme would flourifh, did each fon of fame Might sweetly mourn in elegiac verfe. But were his muse for elegy unfit, Perhaps a distich might not strain his wit; If epigram offend, his harmless lines Might in gold letters fwing on ale-house figns. And Tuttle-fields record his fimple lays; Where rhymes like thefe might lure the nurfes 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. Then Maurus in his proper sphere 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, * Prince Arthur, book s. 3 A N |