To Claremont must draw him, for help I have none;
O’er Esher’s hot sands, in a dry summer’s day,
How I sweat and I chafe, and I pant all the way
But when I return, and the draft is increased
By what he has crammed—a stone at the least—
No single horse can be, in conscience thought able
To draw both the justice, and eke half your table.
This, my case, gracious duke, to your tender compassion
I submit, and O! take it in consideration.
To draw with a pair, put the squire in a way,