And call’d—A horse! a horse!—he, Burbidge cry’de[104].
Howere his talke, his company pleas’d well;
His mare went truer then his chronicle;
And even for conscience sake, unspurr’d, unbeaten,
Brought us six miles, and turn’d tayle at Nuneaton.
From thence to Coventry, where wee scarcely dine;
Our stomackes only warm’d with zeale and wine:
And then, as if wee were predestin’d forth,
Like Lot from Sodome, fly to Killingworth.
The keeper of the castle was from home,