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.)