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: