And thus the sport goes on, till weary grown,
And ev’ryone is willing to go home.
The weary duck at last swims close to land;
They take her up with a kind, pitying hand.
Of every spannel they extoll the praise
And all their virtues to the skies they raise.
And then they, weary, homewards take their way,
And drown in sprightly bowls the labours of the day.
The duke’s poems are worthless, of course, but among the Knole papers of this date is one which I cannot forbear from reproducing:
AN EPISTLE from DAME I ... L ... to the REVD. MR. B ...