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First Line: Fowler! My friend, if riches be your aim
Last Line: And through the villages doth bear the skin.


FOWLER! my friend, if riches be your aim,
I teach the way chill poverty to spurn:
Let all the birds you've ta'en fly free, but learn
One bird to snare, the bird whom Love we name.

'Tis he who, for an apple's worthless claim,
Did the proud empire of the east o'erturn;
Who makes, in winter, hearts like summer burn;
Who robs our sleep, and sets the soul aflame.

For if this bird, this wondrous bird, you take,
Who hath such mischief made, and still doth make,
You shall more lard, and eggs, and cheeses win

Than does the hunter who in woods has ta'en
Some big old fox, or some grey wolf has slain,
And through the villages doth bear the skin.





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