My—anything but beautiful, that standest "knock-knee'd" by,
"Inverted arch" describes thy back, as "dismal" doth thine eye.
Fret not—go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed;
I dare not mount on thee ('twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed.
Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;
The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind;
The stranger "had" thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told;
I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I'm sold! I'm sold!
To-morrow's sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.
Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?