My brother whip, impatient of delay,
Puts too at three and swears he cannot stay.'
(Four dismal hours ere the break of day.)
Roused from sound sleep—thrice called—at length I rise,
Yawning, stretch out my arms, 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, jammed in on t'other side,