1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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