But a few moments more I for patience implore,-- In behalf of your victims I speak; And would beg when you draw Them up on to the shore, You at once for their lifetime would seek. Still, kind Reader, think not, though it so, p'rhaps, may look, I'm like Johnson, who wrote out that fine-meaning book, Who would angling define as a stick and a string, Which a worm and a fool into close contact bring. No! The sport I admire, and when the fish will but bite, 'Tis a feeling which almost amounts to delight. Though a trifling addition will heighten, indeed, The pleasure, I mean, if some nice girl would read Out aloud by your side, and would shadow your eyes From the sun, and away drive the flies With her neat parasol. I have asked, but must state I could never persuade one to stick on the bait. Though some ladies I know who can pull out a fish With as much skill and science as Walton could wish. Kind Reader, now, my parting bow With many thanks I make, For patience shown; though, overgrown, Much space the morals take. Still, I beg to remark, they're not meant for you, Who have quietly waded their deep meaning through, But for those who exclaim, "O what humbug! what stuff!" Who, though not at all wise, find one word quite enough. _THE END._ London: Printed by G. BARCLAY, Castle St. Leicester Sq.