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Now fly the waal eaons wingd with glee, Each day affords a floode of roring joy; The Springs green months ycharmd with Cocking flee, The jolly Hore-race Summers grand employ, His Harvets Sports the foxe and hare detroy; But the ubtantial Comforts of the Bowl Are thine, O Winter! thine to fire the Boy With Englands caue, and well his mightie oul, Till dizzy with his peres about the flore he rowl.

Now round his dores ynail'd on cloggs of wood Hangs many a badgers nout and foxes tail, The which he had through many a hedge perewd, Through marh, through meer, dyke, ditch, and delve and dale; To hear his hair-breadth capes would make you pale; Which well the groome hight Patrick can relate, Whileas on holidays he quaffs his ale; And not one circumtance will he forgett, So keen the braggard chorle is on his hunting ett.