Page:The castle of Indolence - an allegorical poem - Written in imitation of Spenser (IA castleofindolenc00thomiala).pdf/89

LXXX.

The other was a fell despightful Fiend:

Hell holds none worse in baleful Bower below;
By Pride, and Wit, and Rage, and Rancour, keen'd;
Of Man alike, if good or bad, the Foe:
With Nose up-turn'd, he always made a Shew
As if he smelt some nauseous Scent; his Eye
Was cold, and keen, like Blast from boreal Snow;
And Taunts he casten forth most bitterly.
Such were the Twain that off drove this ungodly Fry.

LXXXI.

Even so through Brentford Town, a Town of Mud,

An Herd of brisly Swine is prick'd along;
The filthy Beasts, that never chew the Cud,
Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous Song,
And oft they plunge themselves the Mire among:
But ay the ruthless Driver goads them on,
And ay of barking Dogs the bitter Throng
Makes them renew their unmelodious Moan;
Ne ever find they Rest from their unresting Fone.

F I N I S.