Sad melancholy ev'ry 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 feast 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 fheep the pasture hide, there harvefts bend,

See Sarum steeple 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 fpire.

What

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

Shall three knights errants starve for want of kisses?
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 discharg'd to man and maid,
The ready oftler near the stirrup ftands,
And as we mount, our half-pence load his hands.
Now the fleep hill fair Dorchester o'erlooks,
Border'd by meads, and wafh'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 poftures, and their eyeless ace;
Then dedicate each glass to some fair name,
And on the fafh the diamond fcrawls my flame.
Now o'er true Roman way our horfes 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 profpects 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 unadulterate wine we here regale,

And ftrip the lobster of his scarlet 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 shirts her bufy fingers rub,
While the foap lathers o'er the foaming tub.
If women's geer fuch pleafing dreams incite,
Lend us your finocks, 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 fkilful hand bedeck:
Smooth o'er our chin her eafy fingers move,

Soft as when Venus ftroak'd the beard of Joue.
Now from the steep,'midst scatter'd cotts and groves,
Our eye thro' Honiton's fair valley Loves.

Behind us foon the busy town we leave,

Where finest lace industrious lasses 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 spurs 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 flourifh, 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 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.
Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays,

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,
We mount our steeds, and Devon's city gain.
Hail, happy native land!But I forbear,
What other counties muft with envy hear.

* Prince Arthur, book s.

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