And at the fore, or the back-door,
Slowly plods his jades before.
Oft hearing the sow-gelder’s horn
Harshly rouse the snoring morn,
From the side of a large square,
Through the long street grunting far.
Sometimes walking I’ll be seen
By Tower-hill, or Moorfields green,
Right against Old Bedlam-gate,
Where the mock king begins his state,