And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day;
While alike born for sports in the field or the course,
Always sure to come through—a staunch and fleet horse;
And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,
The high-mettled racer is in at the death.
Grown aged, used up, and turn’d out of the stud,
Lame, spavin’d, and wind-gall’d, but yet with some blood;
While knowing postilions his pedigree trace,
Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race;
And what matches he’d won too the ostlers count o’er,