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With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.' 90
"I pare this pippin round and round again,
My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain,
I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,
Upon the grass a perfect L is read;
Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen
Than what the paring makes upon the green.
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

"This pippin shall another trial make,
See from the core two kernels brown I take;
This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn;
And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne.
But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground,
A certain token that his love's unsound;
While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last;
Oh, were his lips to mine but join'd so fast!

FRIDAY; OR, THE DIRGEL

BUMKINET, GRUBBINOL

BUMKINET.

WHY, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem? There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem. 'Tis true yon oaks with yellow tops appear, And chilly blasts begin to nip the year; From the tall elm a shower of leaves is borne, And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn. Yet ev'n this season pleasance blithe affords, 100 Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple boards, Come, let us hie, and quaff a cheery bowl, Let cyder new "wash sorrow from thy soul."

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.'

"As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree,
I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee.
He wist not when the hempen string I drew.
Now mine I quickly doff, of inkle blue.
Together fast I tye the garters twain;
And while I knit the knot repeat this strain :
Three times a true-love's knot I tye secure,
Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure!

110

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.’

"As I was wont, 1 trudg'd last market-day

To town, with new-laid eggs preserv'd in hay.

120

I made my market long before 'twas night,
My purse grew heavy, and my basket light.
Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went,
And in love-powder all my money spent.
Behap what will, next Sunday, after prayers,
When to the ale-house Lubberkin repairs,
These golden flies into his mug I'll throw,
And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow.
With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.' 130 "But hold our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his ears,

O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears.
He comes! he comes! Hobnelia's not bewray'd,
Nor shall she, crown'd with willow, die a maid.
He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown:
Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown!"

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GRUBBINOL.

10

Ah, Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone, From these sad plains all merriment is flown; Should I reveal my grief, 'twould spoil thy cheer, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.

BUMKINET.

"Hang sorrow!" Let's to yonder hut repair, And with trim sonnets "cast away our care." "Gillian of Croydon" well thy pipe can play : Thou sing'st most sweet, "O'er hills and far away." Of "Patient Grissel" I devise to sing, And catches quaint shall make the vallies ring. A Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come; From hence we view our flocks securely roam.

CRUBBINOL.

Yes, blithsome lad, a tale I mean to sing, But with my woe shall distant vallies ring. The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head, For, woe is me!—our Blouzelind is dead!

BUMKINET.

Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell, my glee!
No happiness is now reserv'd for me.
As the wood-pigeon coos without his mate,
So shall my doleful dirge bewail her fate.
Of Biouzelinda fair I mean to tell,

The peerless maid that did all maids excel.

Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed, And evening tears upon the grass be spread; The rolling streams with watery grief shall flow, And winds shall moan aloud-when loud they blow. Henceforth, as oft as Autumn shall return, The drooping trees, whene'er it rains, shall mourn: The season quite shall strip the country's pride, For 'twas in Autumn Blouzelinda dy'd.

Where'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view, Woods, dairy, barn, and mows, our passion kner, When I direct my eyes to yonder wood, Fresh rising sorrow curdles in my blood.

Dirge, or dyrge, a mournful ditty, or song of lamentation, over the dead; not a contractia of the Latin dirige in the popish hymn, dinice gressus meos, as some pretend; but from the Teatonic dyrke, laudare, to praise and extol. Whence it is possible their dyrke, and our dirge, was a laudatory song to commemorate and applaud the dead. Cowell's Interpretet. Incipe, Mopse, prior, si quos aut Phyllidis ignes Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgia Codri. Virg. Ver. 27. Glee, joy; from the Dutch glooren, a

Ver. 15.

Virg. I recreate.

Thither I've often been the damsel's guide,
When rotten sticks our fuel have supply'd;
There I remember how her faggots large
Were frequently these happy shoulders' charge.
Sometimes this crook drew hazel-boughs adown,
And stuff'd her apron wide with nuts so brown; 50
Or when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way,
Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay;
Th' untoward creatures to the stye I drove,
And whistled all the way-or told my love.

If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie,

I shall her goodly countenance espy ;
For there her goolly countenance I've seen,
Set off with kerchief starch'd and pinners clean.
Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round,
Or with the wooden lily prints the pound.
Whilom I've seen her skim the clouted cream,
And press from spungy curds the milky stream:
But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more
The whining swine surround the dairy door;
No more her care shall fill the hollow tray,
To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey.
Lament, ye swine, in grunting spend your grief,
For you, like me, have lost your sole relief.

When in the barn the sounding flail I ply,

60

When Blouzelind expir'd, the wether's bell
Before the drooping flock toll'd forth her knell; 100
The solemn death-watch click'd the hour she dy'd,
And shrilling crickets in the chimney cry'd;
The boding raven on her cottage sate,
And with hoarse croaking warn'd us of her fate;
The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred,
Dropp'd on the plains that fatal instant dead;
Swarm'd on a rotten stick the bees I spy'd,
Which erst I saw when Goody Dobson dy'd.

How shall I, void of tears, her death relate,
When on her darling's bed her mother sate!
These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke,
And of the dead let none the will revoke:

110

"Mother," quoth she, "let not the poultry need,
And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed:
Be these my sister's care-and every morn
Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn;
The sickly calf that's hous'd be sure to tend,
Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend.
Yet ere I die-see, mother, yonder shelf,
There secretly I've hid my worldly pelf.
Twenty good shillings in a rag I laid;
Be ten the parson's, for my sermon paid.
The rest is yours-my spinning-wheel and rake

Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly; 70 Let Susan keep for her dear sister's sake ;

The poultry there will seem around to stand,
Waiting upon her charitable hand.
No succour meet the poultry now can find,
For they, like me, have lost their Blouzelind.
Whenever by yon barley mow I pass,
Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass.

I pitch'd the sheaves, (oh, could I do so now!)
Which she in rows pil'd on the growing mow.
There every deale my heart by love was gain'd,
There the sweet kiss my courtship has explain'd. 80
Ah, Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er shall see,
But thy memorial will revive in me.

Lament, ye fields, and rueful symptoms show;
Henceforth let not the smelling primrose grow;
Let weeds, instead of butter-flowers, appear,
And meads, instead of daisies, hemlock bear;
For cowslips sweet let dandelions spread;
For Blouzelinda, blithsome maid, is dead!
Lament, ye swains, and o'er her grave bemoan,
And spell ye right this verse upon her stone:
"Here Blouzelinda lies-Alas, alas!
Weep, shepherds-and remember flesh is grass."

GRUBBINOL.

Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear,
Than to the thirsty cattle rivers clear;
Or winter porridge to the labouring youth,
Or buns and sugar to the damsel's tooth;
Yet Blouzelinda's name shall tune my lay,
Of her I'll sing for ever and for aye.

Ver. 84

Pro molli viola, pro parpureo narcisso,
Carduus & spinis surgit paliurus acutis.
Ver. 90.

90

Virg.

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120

130

My new straw hat, that's trimly lin'd with green,
Let Peggy wear, for she's a damsel clean.
My leathern bottle, long in harvests try'd,
Be Grubbinol's-this silver ring beside:
Three silver pennies, and a nine-pence bent,
A token kind to Bumkinet is sent."
Thus spoke the maiden, while the mother cry'd;
And peaceful, like the harmless lamb, she dy'd.
To show their love, the neighbours far and near
Follow'd with wistful look the damsel's bier.
Sprig'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore,
While dismally the parson walk'd before.
Upon her grave the roseinary they threw,
The daisie, butter-flower, and endive blue.

After the good man warn'd us from his text, 159
That none could tell whose turn would be the next;
He said, that Heaven would take her soul, no

doubt,

And spoke the hour-glass in her praise-quite out.
To her sweet memory, flowery garlands strung,
O'er her now empty seat aloft were hung.
With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around,
To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground;
Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze,
For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze.

Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,
To drink new cyder mull'd, with ginger warm. 150
For Gaffer Treadwell told us, by the by,
"Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry."

While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
Or lasses with soft stroakings milk the cow;
While paddling ducks the standing lake desire,
Or battening hogs roll in the sinking mire;
While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise;
So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise.
Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy strain,
Till bonny Susan sped across the plain.

Ver. 153.

160

Dum juga montis aper, fluvios di m piscis amabit,
Dumque thymno pascentur apes, dum rore cicada,
Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque mane
bunt.
Virg

They seiz'd the lass in apron clean array'd,
And to the ale-house forc'd the willing maid;
In ale and kisses they forget their cares,
And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs.

SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS.

BOWZYBEUS.

SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare; Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care; Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise, The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays; With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse,

While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse.
'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil
Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil;
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout,
Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about; 10
The lads, with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow,
Cut down the labours of the winter plough.
To the near hedge young Susan steps aside,
She feign'd her coat or garter was unty'd;
Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,
And merry reapers what they list will ween.
Soon she rose up, and cry'd with voice so shrill,
That Echo answer'd from the distant hill;
The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid,
Who thought some adder had the lass dismay'd. 20
When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spy'd,
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside;
That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing,
Or with the rosin'd bow torment the string;
That Bowzybeus who, with fingers speed,
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed;
That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue,
Ballads and roundelays and catches sung:
They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright,
And in disport surround the drunken wight.

30

Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long? The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous

strong!

Thou should'st have left the fair before 'twas night; But thou sat'st toping till the morning light."

Cicely brisk maid, steps forth before the rout, An kiss'd with smacking lip the snoaring lout: (For cut m says, "Whoe'er this venture proves, For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.") By her example Dorcas bolder grows, Ad plays a tickling straw within his nose. He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke The sneering swains with stammering speech bespoke :

86

To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er, As for the ma'ds-I've something else in store." No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song, But lads and lasses round about him throng.

Ver. 22.

40

Serta procul tantum capiti delapsa jacebant. Virg.

Ver. 40.

Sanguineis frontem moris & tempora pingit. Virg.

Ver. 43.

Carmina, quæ vultis, cognoscite: carmina vobis ; Huic aliud mercedis erit. Virg.

Not ballad-singer plac'd above the crowd
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud;
Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear,
Like Bowzybeus soothes th' attentive ear.

50

Of Nature's laws his carols first begun, Why the grave owl can never face the Sun. For owls, as swains observe, detest the light, And only sing and seek their prey by night. How turnips hide their swelling heads below; And how the closing coleworts upwards grow; How Will-a-wisp misleads night-faring clowns O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs. Of stars he told, that shoot with shining trail, And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. 60 He sung where woodcocks in the Summer feed, And in what climates they renew their breed (Some think to northern coasts their flight they Or to the Moon in midnight hours ascend); [tend, Where swallows in the Winter's season keep, And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep; How Nature does the puppy's eyelid close Till the bright Sun has nine times set and rose That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind). 70 (For huntsmen by their long experience find, Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows, For still new fairs before his eyes arose. How pedlars' stalls with glittering toys are laid, The various fairings of the country maid. Long silken laces hang upon the twine, And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine; How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissars spies, And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes, Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told, Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. 80 The lads and lasses trudge the street along, And all the fair is crowded in his song. The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells; And on the rope the venturous maiden swings; Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs, Jack Pudding in his party-colour'd jacket Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats, Of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats. 90 Then sad he sung the Children in the Wood: (Ah, barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood!) And fearless at the glittering falchion smil’d; How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild, Their little corpse the robin-red-breasts found, And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around. (Ah, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, Your names shall live for ever in my song.)

For Buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife, How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.

To louder strains he rais'd his voice, to tell What woeful wars in Chevy-chace befell,

Ver. 47.

100

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109

When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn,
Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!
Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crown'd,
If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound!
Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps,
By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.
All in the land of Essex next he chants,
How to sleek mares starch quakers turn gallants:
How the grave brother stood on bank so green→
Happy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm,
And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm.

He sung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot, Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot.

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Why should I tell of Bateman. or of Shore, Or Wantley's Dragon, slain by valiant Moor,

Deborah

i. 44 v. 87 iv. 18

Kid

i. 54

Kidling

v. 25

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The Bower of Rosamond, or Robin Hood, And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood?

His carols ceas'd: the listening maids and swains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose; and, as he reels along, Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song. The damsels laughing fly the giddy clown Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown; The power that guards the drunk, his sleep attends, Till ruddy, like his face, the Sun descends.

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120

Deer

i. 36

Kingcup

i. 43

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Goody Dobson
Duck
Duckling
Ducking-stool

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Eggs Elm

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Virg. Endive

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v. 60

iii. 55 vi. 116

Epitaph

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Virg.

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Ver. 117-120. Old English ballads,

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ALPHABETICAL CATALOGUE

OF

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Ginger

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iii. 28 V. 96

Goose

v. 114

Midsummer-eve iv. 27

Mountebank

v. 157

vi. 83

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Adder

vi. 20

Boobyclod

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i. 33

Green gown

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Apple

iv. 126

Apron

ii. 105. v. 50

Bowzybeus Butcher

vi. iii. 90

Grass

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Ass

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v. 85 Gypsy

ii. 74

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B

с

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i. 16, 55

Ballad-singer

vi. 47

Capon

i. 90

Hare
Holy-day.
Haycock

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Bat

iii. 117 Car

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iii. 20

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P

Bays

iii. 18

Cicely

ii. 20. vi. 35

Hemlock

v. 86

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Barn i. 122. v. 69

Clover grass

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Hour-glass

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Blackberry

vi. 93

Clumsilis

iii. 30 Holly

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Blind-man's-buff

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vi. 77

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Cow i. 16. 82. Colin Clout

ii. 104

Hobnelia Hot-cockles

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i. 2 iii. 40

151

vi. 120

i. 86

ii. 55 True-love's knot iv. 115

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Parish clerk

vi. 49 parabella

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i. 61 vi. 80 iii. i. 107

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Gaffer Treadwell v.

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Threshing

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Udder

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i. 92 v. 43 i. 63 vi. 61 v. 54

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Valentine's day iv. 37
i. 4

Wake
Weather

W

Wheat-sheaf

TRIVIA;

OR,

10

THROUGH winter streets to steer your course aright,
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night;
vi. 79 How jostling crowds with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall, and when resign,
I sing thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song,
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stray
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way,
The silent court and opening square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.
To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays;
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground,
Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound;
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside.
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame,
From the great theme to build a glorious name,
To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown,
And bind my temples with a civic crown:
But more my country's love demands my lays;
v. 66 My country's be the profit, mine the praise!
When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice,
And "clean your shoes" resounds from every voice;
When late their miry sides stage-coaches show,
And their stiff horses through the town move slow;
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies,

ii. 4 v. 99

i. 60 v. 85 vi. 57 vi. 126

THE ART OF WALKING THE STREETS OF LONDON.

IN THREE BOOKS.

Quo te Mori pedes? an, quo via ducit, in urbem?
Virg.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE world, I believe, will take so little notice of me, that I need not take much of it. The critics may see by this poem, that I walk on foot, which probably may save me from their envy. should be sorry to raise that passion in men whom I am so much obliged to, since they allow me an honour hitherto only shown to better writers, that of denying me to be the author of my own works.

Gentlemen, if there be any thing in this poem good enough to displease you, and if it be any advantage to you to ascribe it to some person of greater merit; I shall acquaint you, for your comfort, that, among many other obligations, I owe several hints of it to Dr. Swift And, if you will so far continue your favour as to write against it, I beg you to oblige me in accepting the following motto:

-Non tu, in triviis, indocte, solebas [Virg.
Stridenti, miseram, stipula, disperdere carmen

20

30

And damsels first renew their oyster-cries:
Then let the prudent walker shoes provide,
Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide;
The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
And with the scallop'd top his step be crown'd:
Let firm, well-hammer'd soles protect thy feet
Thro' freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet.
Should the big last extend the shoe too wide,
Each stone will wrench th' unwary step aside;
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein,
Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain;
And, when too short the modish shoes are worn,
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.

Nor should it prove thy less important care,
To choose a proper coat for winter's wear.
Now in thy truok thy D'Oily habit fold,
The silken drugget ill can fence the cold;
The frieze's spongy nap is soak'd with rain,
And showers soon drench the camlet's cockled
grain;

True Witney' broad-cloth, with its shag unshore,
Unpiere'd is in the lasting tempest worn:
Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear
Ainid the town the spoils of Russia's bear? 50
Within the roqueiaure's clasp thy hands are pent,
Hands, that, stretch'd forth, invading barms pre-
Let the loop'd bavaroy the fop embrace, [vent
Or his deep cloke bespatter'd o'er with lace.
That garment best the winter's rage defends,
Whose ample form without one plait depends;
By various names in various counties known,
Yet held in all the true surtout alone;
Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost,
Then brave unwet the rain, unchill'd the frost. 60

2

A town in Oxfordshire.
2 A Joseph, wrap-rascal, &c.

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