Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice;—
Save in the clubs no man of honour plays;—
Boats when ’twas water, skating when ’twas ice,
And the hard frost destroyed the scenting days:
And angling, too, that solitary vice,
Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.