[But a walking-tour is not without its inconveniences. The poet dwells on the discomforts of heat, cold weather, and muddy roads.]
Then, if perchance a carriage passes by,
Me the postillion eyes with savage mind,
And backward cracks his whip, suspecting I,
To steal a ride, am getting up behind.
I look not like a knave, yet constantly
The travellers on their luggage keep an eye.
I ask mine host o’ the inn if there’s a bed;
From head to foot he looks me coldly o’er,
Then turns his back, with haughtiness ill-bred,