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312 My morning lounge is Eastburn’s shop,
 * At Poppleton’s I take my lunch,

Niblo prepares my mutton-chop,
 * And Jennings51 makes my whiskey-punch.

When merry, I the hours amuse
 * By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls,

And when I’m troubled with the blues,
 * Damn Clinton and abuse canals:

Then, Fortune! since I ask no prize,
 * At least preserve me from thy frown!

The man who don’t attempt to rise,
 * ’Twere cruelty to tumble down.

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