Sonnet

Some for their sport
To woods resort
Wher kenneld lies the wily fox
Others delight
I'th'moonshine night
To boult the Cunny, sack the brocks

Some say the fields
More pass-time yeilds
In following Watt that dies for fear
And ther's again
A Stoick train
Place all content in a Carear.

But all such err
I dare averr
And doe their minds with froth confound
For ther's noe chase
But must guive place
Unto the Race on Stanford doun.

Wher Cripple lies
And Jack-straw flies
And Marigould amongst the rest
With Cooper matcht
Is soon dispatcht
For that horse wins that runs the best

Ther Logger-head
Must not be sayd
To measure out in vayne the course
Since he's to start
With one of Art
A Cambridg Academick horse.

'Sides a bald steed
Ther is indeed
Cost half a hundred and more
Suted to dance
As well as prance
Wearing white pumps on his feet 4.

But he is yet
For training sett
And soe but looks upon the game
As I suppose
Least he should lose
Soe rob Pick-pocket of his name.

These met together
Wind and weather
Lords and Ladies all agreing
Noe recreation
To Conversation
Which crowns that Life else were but being.

Poor Sorrel's bear
Soe we retreat
Yet thus our future hopes display
Since Holl's of age
It doth presage
That Westmorland will win his day

The second part to the same tune.

This may suffize
But when the prise
Or cup is to be run for then
I'd have none heer
Soe voyd of fear
As not to yeild to Lincoln men

We are but Majors at the sport
But when those blades to it resort
Each is a Collonell
And hath the speed as I suppose
And heeles in swallow of all those
That cannot drink soe well

Some doe soe little lap endure
They yeild and pay a forfeture
Rather than leese their main
Nor can that horse however quick
Run out his course when he is sick
Allthough of Fennick strain

Ther is a Brother of the Nett
Were He put in judge would get
The plate from any other
For He noe sooner starts and's up
But he must have his chirping-cup
His cares to drownd and smother

Then rise up Peg and waygh thy Ale
Was brewd last night soe is not stale
The word Saint George is guiven
They come apowder and amain
Now St Jhon has't now Bob again
To make thy Lodg their hevn

Ther Bully Watt swears he will meet
And judg which of the two's more fleet
For He's a Jocky right
Til they have all the Ale-stoops past
And now retird to th'Chimny at last
Sit nodding ore a pipe