Here lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt, <br />And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt, <br />Or els the ways being foul, twenty to one, <br />He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. <br />'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known, <br />Death was half glad when he had got him down; <br />For he had any time this ten yeers full, <br />Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull. <br />And surely, Death could never have prevail'd, <br />Had not his weekly cours of carriage fail'd; <br />But lately finding him so long at home, <br />And thinking now his journeys end was come, <br />And that he had tane up his latest Inne, <br />In the kind office of a Chamberlin <br />Shew'd him his room where he must lodge that night, <br />Pull'd off his Boots, and took away the light: <br />If any ask for him, it shall be sed, <br />Hobson has supt, and 's newly gon to bed.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-university-carrier-who-sickn-d-in-the-tim/
