Ease’d of a great man’s chaise, and coming back,
From Bladud’s springs, upon the western road;
No bloated Noble’s luggage at his rump,
Whose doom’s, that dread of pick-pockets, the pump,
He canters home, from Bath, without his load.
Sir Thomas being scrupulous, and queasy,
Couldn’t, in all this interval, be easy.
He went to bed;—and, there, began to burn;
Nine times he turn’d, in wondrous perturbation;—
He woke her Ladyship, at every turn,