And these were Milton's.
Their unlikeness to other work of his lies in their likeness to a form
of literature which was but fashion of the day, and having travelled out
of sight of its old starting-point and forgotten where its true goal
lay, had gone astray, and often by idolatry of wit sinned
against wisdom._
ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER,
_Who sickened in the time of his Vacancy, being forbid to go to London
by reason of the Plague._
Here lies old Hobson. Death hath 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
Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and _The Bull_,
And surely Death could never have prevailed
Had not his weekly course of carriage failed:
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 chamberlin
Showed him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pulled off his boots, and took away the light.
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
"Hobson has supped, and's newly gone to bed."
ANOTHER ON THE SAME.
Here lieth one that did most truly 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.
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