Full three a clock, and twenty miles to ride, Will aske a speedy horse, and a sure guide; Wee wanted both: and Loughborow may glory, Errour hath made it famous in our story. Twas night, and the swifte horses of the Sunne Two houres before our jades their race had runn; Noe pilott moone, nor any such kinde starre As governd those wise men that came from farre To holy Bethlem; such lights had there bin, They would have soone convay’d us to an inne; But all were wandring-starrs; and wee, as they, Were taught noe course, but to ride on and stray. When (oh the fate of darknesse, who hath tride it) Here our whole fleete is scatter’d and divided; And now wee labour more to meete, then erst Wee did to lodge; the last cry drownes the first: Our voyces are all spent, and they that follow Can now no longer track us by the hollow; They curse the formost, wee the hindmost, both Accusing with like passion, hast, and sloth. At last, upon a little towne wee fall, Where some call drinke, and some a candle call: Unhappy wee, such stragglers as wee are Admire a candle offner then a starre: Wee care not for those glorious lampes a loofe, Give us a tallow-light and a dry roofe. And now wee have a guide wee cease to chafe, And now w’ have time to pray the rest be safe. Our guide before cryes Come, and wee the while Ride blindfold, and take bridges for a stile: Till at the last wee overcame the darke, And spight of night and errour hitt the marke. Some halfe howre after enters the whole tayle, As if they were committed to the jayle: The constable, that tooke them thus divided, Made them seeme apprehended, and not guided: Where, when wee had our fortunes both detested, Compassion made us friends, and so wee rested. ’Twas quickly morning, though by our short stay Wee could not find that wee had lesse to pay. All travellers, this heavy judgement heare: “A handsome hostesse makes the reckoning deare;” Her smiles, her wordes, your purses must requite them, And every wellcome from her, adds an item. Glad to be gon from thence at any rate, For Bosworth wee are horst: Behold the state Of mortall men! Foule Errour is a mother, And, pregnant once, doth soone bring forth an other; Wee, who last night did learne to loose our way, Are perfect since, and farther out next day. And in a forrest[102] having travell’d sore, Like wandring Bevis ere hee found the bore; Or as some love-sick lady oft hath donne, Ere shee was rescued by the Knight of th’ Sunne: Soe are wee lost, and meete no comfort then But carts and horses, wiser then the men. Which is the way? They neyther speake nor point; Their tongues and fingers both were out of joynt: Such monsters by Coal-Orton bankes there sitt, After their resurrection from the pitt.