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But, thank my stars, all danger's past, I'll make the cupboard rue my fast, M.y first exploit shall be my last, Of going out a fishing.
With rods and lines, &c.
Break up the House,
No more of your mag ; Away to the grouse,
With a gun and a bag.
No more prose and plod On each wearisome theme ;
Take your line and your rod, And be off to the stream.
Fling blue books aside, And throw up all reports,
Mount your horses and ride ; You're dismissed to your sports.
Go out in your yachts, Having cut your debates ;
Visit famed foreign spots, Or your country estates.
By inhaling fresh air
In your drive, ride or walk,
You the breath may repair Which you've wasted in talk.