And I use my umbrella and pattens in sleep:
Row out of my window, whene'er 'tis my whim
To visit a friend, and just ask, "Can you swim?"'

So far my friend.* In short, whether in prose or in verse,
everybody railed at the weather. But this is over now. The sun has
come to dry the world; mud is turned into dust; rivers have
retreated to their proper limits; farmers have left off grumbling;
and we are about to take a walk, as usual, as far as the Shaw, a
pretty wood about a mile off. But one of our companions being a
stranger to the gentle reader, we must do him the honour of an
introduction.

*This friend of mine is a person of great quickness and talent, who,
if she were not a beauty and a woman of fortune--that is to say, if
she were prompted by either of those two powerful stimuli, want of
money or want of admiration, to take due pains--would inevitably
become a clever writer. As it is, her notes and 'jeux d'esprit'
struck off 'a trait de plume,' have great point and neatness. Take
the following billet, which formed the label to a closed basket,
containing the ponderous present alluded to, last Michaelmas day:--

'To Miss M.
"When this you see
Remember me,"
Was long a phrase in use;
And so I send
To you, dear friend,
My proxy, "What?"--A goose!'