And all receive, though none deserve, a fee.

So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn,[[233]] glides

The Derby dilly, carrying Three Insides.

One in each corner sits, and lolls at ease,

180

With folded arms, propt back, and outstretched knees;

While the pressed Bodkin, punched and squeezed to death,

Sweats in the midmost place, and scolds, and pants for breath.[[234]]

(To be continued.)