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by John Milton -

who sickn'd in the time of his vacancybeing forbid

to go to Londonby reason of the Plague -

Here lies old HobsonDeath hath broke his girt

And here alashath laid him in the dirt

Or els the ways being foultwenty to one

He's here stuck in a sloughand overthrown.

'Twas such a shifterthat if truth were known

Death was half glad when he had got him down;

For he had any time this ten yeers full

Dodg'd with himbetwixt Cambridge and the Bull.

And surelyDeath could never have prevail'd

Had not his weekly cours of carriage fail'd;

But lately finding him so long at home

And thinking now his journeys end was come

And that his had tane up his latest Inne

In the kind office of a Chamberlin

Shew'd him his room where he must lodge that night

Pull'd off his Bootsand took away the light:

If any ask for himit shall be sed

Hobson has suptand's newly gon to bed. - -