Next morn, twelve miles led o’er th’ unbounded plain Where the cloak’d shepherd guides his fleecy train. No leafy bow’rs a noontide shelter lend, Nor from the chilly dews at night defend; With wondrous art he counts the straggling flock, And by the sun informs you what’s o’clock. How are our shepherds fall’n from ancient days! No Amaryllis chants alternate lays; From her no list’ning echoes learn to sing, Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring. Here sheep the pasture hide, there harvests bend, See Sarum’s steeple o’er yon hill ascend; Our horses faintly trot beneath the heat, And our keen stomachs know the hour to eat. Who can forsake thy walls, and not admire The proud cathedral and the lofty spire? What sempstress has not proved thy scissors good? From hence first came th’ intriguing riding-hood. Amid three boarding-schools well stock’d with misses, Shall three knight-errants starve for want of kisses? O’er the green turf the miles slide swift away, And Blandford ends the labours of the day. * * * * * The morning rose; the supper reck’ning paid, And our due fees discharg’d to man and maid, The ready ostler near the stirrup stands, And as we mount, our halfpence load his hands. Now the steep hill fair Dorchester o’erlooks, Bordered by meads, and wash’d by silver brooks. Here sleep my two companions, eyes supprest, And propt in elbow-chairs they snoring rest; I weary sit, and with my pencil trace Their painful postures and their eyeless face; Then dedicate each glass to some fair name, And on the sash the diamond scrawls my flame. Now o’er true Roman way our horses sound; Grævius would kneel and kiss the sacred ground. On either side fair fertile valleys lie, The distant prospects tire the travelling eye. Through Bridport’s stony lanes our route we take, And the proud steep ascend to Morecombe’s lake. As hearses pass’d, our landlord robb’d the pall, And with the mournful scutcheon hung his hall. On unadulterate wine we here regale, And strip the lobster of his scarlet mail. We climb’d the hills when starry night arose, And Axminster affords a kind repose. The maid, subdued by fees, her trunk unlocks, And gives the cleanly aid of dowlas smocks. Meantime our shirts her busy fingers rub, While the soap lathers o’er the foaming tub. If women’s gear such pleasing dreams incite, Lend us your smocks, ye damsels, ev’ry night. We rise, 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 skilful hand bedeck; Smooth o’er our chins her easy fingers move, Soft as when Venus strok’d the beard of Jove. Now from the steep, ’mid scatter’d cots and groves,