Among sweet April showers there's no dangler
So persevering as your fervent angler:
Left, by less fond companions, in the lurch,
Upon his lonely boat he'll take his _perch_,
And fish for ever there by _line_ and rule,
His poets must be all of the _Lake_ school,
The only prose writers he'd ever brook,
In social brotherhood, are _Pool_ and _Hook_;
Beat him on land, he thinks the insult odd,
Beat him by water, and he'll kiss _the rod_;
Has he a secret you would know past doubt,
Your only chance with him's to _worm_ it out:
Take him abroad to ride, he'd rather die
Than have a coach, if he could get a _fly_:
He'd like to sit for life upon a raft,
In perpetuity of gentle _craft_!
What if a little hostel, by the stream,
Offer "fish, gratis!" what is that to him?
He'd rather sit, when clouds have hid the sun,
Between the rain and river, catching none.
What are the jolly inmates all about?
Drinking warm brandy, genial ale, or stout:—
And he? Oh! he is _taking cold without_!