Rous’d from sound sleep—thrice call’d—at length I rise,
Yawning, stretch out my arm, half-closed my eyes;
By steps and lanthorn enter the machine,
And take my place—how cordially!—between
Two aged matrons of excessive bulk,
To mend the matter, too, of meaner folk;
While in like mood, jamm’d in on t’other side,
A bullying captain and a fair one ride,
Foolish as fair, and in whose lap a boy—
Our plague eternal, but her only joy.