Thw worst was, we did neither sup nor sleep,
And so a temperate diet we did keep.
The morning all enrobed in drifting fogs,
We being as ready as we had been dogs:
We need not stand upon long ready making,
But gaping, stretching, and our ears well shaking:
And for I found my host and hostess kind,
I like a true man left my sheets behind.
That Thursday morn, my weary course I framed,
Unto a town that is Newcastle named.
(Not that Newcastle standing upon Tyne)
But this town situation doth confine
Near Cheshire, in the famous county Stafford,
And for their love, I owe them not a straw for't;
But now my versing muse craves some repose,
And whilst she sleeps I'll spout a little prose.
In this town of Newcastle, I overtook an hostler, and I asked him what the next town was called, that was in my way toward Lancaster, he holding the end of a riding rod in his mouth, as if it had been a flute, piped me this answer, and said, Talk-on-the-Hill; I asked him again what he said Talk-on-the-Hill: I demanded the third time, and the third time he answered me as he did before, Talk-on-the-Hill. I began to grow choleric, and asked him why he could not talk, or tell me my way as well there as on the hill; at last I was resolved, that the next town was four miles off me, and that the
