Once a bona-roba, trust me,

Tho' now buttock-shrank and rusty;

But tho' nervy-oil, and fat-a,

Her I caught by you know what-a,
Having boldly thus adventur'd,
And my Sara's socket enter'd,
Her I sued, suited, sorted,
Bussed, bouzed, sneezed, snorted:
Often sate she, when she got up,
All her phrase was, "Drink the pot up."

Thence to Witham, having read there,
That the fattest eel was bred there;
Purposing some to entangle,
Forth I went and took an angle;
Where an huge one having hooked,
By her headlong was I dooked*.

Thence to Grantham + 1 retiring,
Famous for a spire aspiring,

* Maander's shores to Lethe's shadows tend,

Where waves, sound cares, and banks imply our

end.

+ I may compare this town, and be no liar,

With any shire, for whetstones and a spire.

Ibi pastor cum uxore
Coeundi utens more,
De cubiculo descendit,
Quia papa ibi pendet.
Oppidani timent clari
Paulo spiram asportari,
Scissitantes (valde mirum)
Ubi præparent papyrum,
Qua maturius* implicetur,
Ne portando læderetur+.

Veni Newark, ubi vivos Sperans mersos esse rivis, Irrui cellam subamænam, Generosis vinis plenam. Donec lictor intrans cellam, Me conduxit ad flagellum.

* Structura.

+ Penetretur.

Ulmus arenosis pulcherrima nascitur oris,
Arces effusis vestit amona comis.

Hic campi virides, quos Trentia flumina rivis

Fæcundare solent, ubera veris habent.

Hic porrectiore tractu distenditur Bevaria vallis.
Valles trinæ et opimæ

Dapes insulæ divinæ.

There a pastor with his sweeting
In a chamber closely meeting,
In great fury out he flung there,
'Cause a Popish picture hung there:
Here the townsmen are amated,
That their spire should be translated
Unto Paul's; and great's their labour,
How to purchase so much paper
To enwrap it, as is fitting,

To secure their spire from splitting.

Thence to Newark*, flood-surrounded,
Where I hoping most were drowned;

Hand to hand I straitways shored
To a cellar richly stored :

Till suspected for a pick-lock,

Th' beadle led me to the whip-stock.

* A sandy plat a shady elm receives,

Which cloaths those turrets with her shaken leaves,

Here all-along lies Bever's spacious vale,

Near which the streams of fruitful Trent do fall.

Valleys there so fruitful be

They're the wealth of Britainy.