ON OLD HOBSON,

THE CAMBRIDGE CARRIER,

Who sickened in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London by reason of the plague.

BY MILTON.

HERE lies old Hobson! Death has broke his girt,
And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt;
Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
'Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down ;
For he had any time this ten years full,

Dodg'd with him between Cambridge and the Bull;
And surely Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd;
But lately finding him so long at home,

And thinking now his journey's end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,

In the kind office of a chamberlain,

Shew'd him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light.

If any ask for him, it shall be said,
HOBSON has supt, and's newly gone to bed.

ANOTHER ON THE SAME.

ALSO BY MILTON.

HERE lieth one, who did most fully prove
That he could never die while he could move.
So hung his destiny never to rot

While he might still jog on and keep his trot,
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.

Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
'Gainst old Truth) motion number'd out his time:
And, like an engine mov'd with wheel and weight,
His principle being ceas'd, he ended straight.
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm,

Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd,
Fainted and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd.
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning-bed outstretch'd,
If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd;
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
For one carrier put down, to make six bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He died for heaviness that his cart went light.
His leisure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burthensome,
That e'en to his last breath (there be that say't)
As he were prest to death, he cried more weight;
But had his doings lasted as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,
Yet, (strange to think) his wane was his increase;
His letters are deliver'd all, and gone,
Only remains this superscription.

ON THE SAME.

Hobson, (what's out of sight is out of mind)
Is gone, and left his letters here behind;
He that with so much paper us'd to meet,
Is now, alas! content to take one sheet.

ON A PETIT-MAITRE..

By fashion led, I spent my life at ease,
Too gay to let a serious thought displease;
But died amaz'd, that death, that tyrant grim,
Should think of one who never thought of him.

ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER. DID Fate but guide us through life's stormy clime To plunge forgotten in the tide of time, Well might the wise, the good, the gen'rous, come To mourn their loss, o'er PowLETT's hallow'd tomb; To join the widow's tears, the orphan's cry, That Virtue in her mortal part should die. But, lo! a form serene in yonder rock, Whose deep foundations thunder with the shock Of restless waves ;-'tis Faith, who points on high A path gleaming through the azure sky! While smiling Hope, by Revelation led, Springs from the gloomy mansions of the dead, Her glad companion to a brighter shore, Where pain consumes the bud of health no more. Pure spirit! call'd at length, by Heav'n, to know That bliss thy patient virtue earn'd below; To wear the blooming wreath on those bestow'd, Who use aright the talents of their God: Thy life (how far beyond the preacher's art, Of power to touch the unbelieving heart!) Shall yet, though past, our bright example shine; And who can err whose deeds resemble thine? Thy death,-our future consolation prove, And teach to meet thee in the realms above, VOL. I..

I

CHRIST CHURCH, LONDON.

Time's Triumph on the Death of

MR. ROBERT ROGERS,

Who died in the year 1601, in a dialogue between TIME, DEATH, and ROGERS.

DEATH.

STAND; fairly encountred both; grave, sovereigne TIME,

Born of eternity, age's father,

Prince of all Power! all pow'rs on earth are thine;
Thou doest my ruines truest records gather;
Lend thy consent, thy helping hand to mine;
And DEATH will make Time's sovereignty as great
As the three sisters, ladies of sterne Fate.

TIME.

Impartial DEATH, honours respectlesse foe,
Grimme, meager caytiffe, wherefore dost thou come?
Must Virtue's children to thy slaughter goe,
In thy blood-yawning cell to find a roome?
Can none but they quench thy bloody thirst?

DEATH.

No.

ROGERS I come for: TIME thou canst not save him; This dart must strike him, and grim Death will have

him.

ROGERS.

DEATH, Wellcome; all by thee I know must end;
Nor do I care for longer life than this;

I thanke thee, thou hast staid so long, kind friend,
Sweete TIME be PATIENT, pardon mine amisse,
If I have time mispent ; alas, we all offend :

12

If, said I; yes, 'tis certaine, sure I have;
For which offence, deare TIME, I pardon crave.

TIME.

DEATH, grant me this (sweet) doe not kill him,
Till I returne but from the destinies.

DEATH.

I cannot stay a moment,

ROGERS.

O! will him,

Grave TIME, to strike me then, I DEATH despise.

There lie thou dead.

DEATH.

TIME.

Thou canst not spill him;

Time shall erect a trophy of such fame,

That while Time lives, dye shall not Rogers' name.

TIME'S EPITAPH.

Give me an adamantine pen, and leafe of brasse,
To character his name, whose like nere was.
A single life he led, loving to all,

the relief of thrall:

The poor man's succour,
Vertue's example, guide to eternal life,
In carriage courteous, all devoid of strife,
Here lyeth he interr'd, Rogers his name,
Time's only sonne, eterniz'd by Fame.

Ougly Detraction flye, and black Oblivion hence;
Whilst ROGERS' dust lyes here, TIME will his fame

commence.