His angle-rod made of a sturdy oak;
  His line a cable which in storms ne’er broke;
  His hook he baited with a dragon’s tail,
  And sat upon a rock, and bobbed for whale.
Upon a Giant’s Angling.  W. KING.

ANIMALS.

A harmless necessary cat.
Merchant of Venice, Act iv. Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

Confound the cats!  All cats—­alway—­
Cats of all colors, black, white, gray;
By night a nuisance and by day—­
Confound the cats!
A Dithyramb on Cats.  O.T.  DOBBIN.

I am his Highness’ dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
On the Collar of a Dog.  A. POPE.

                     The little dogs and all,
  Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me.
King Lear, Act iii Sc. 6.  SHAKESPEARE.

How, in his mid-career, the spaniel struck,
Stiff, by the tainted gale, with open nose,
Outstretched and finely sensible, draws full,
Fearful and cautious, on the latent prey.
The Seasons:  Autumn.  J. THOMSON.

A horse! a horse!  My kingdom for a horse! King Richard III., Act v. Sc. 4.  SHAKESPEARE.

  The courser pawed the ground with restless feet,
  And snorting foamed, and champed the golden bit.
Palamon and Arcite, Pt.  III.  J. DRYDEN.

  Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
  Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,
  High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
  Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: 
  Look, what a horse should have he did not lack. 
  Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
Venus and Adonis.  SHAKESPEARE.

  Oft in this season too the horse, provoked
    While his big sinews full of spirits swell,
  Trembling with vigor, in the heat of blood,
    Springs the high fence.... his nervous chest,
    Luxuriant and erect, the seat of strength!
The Seasons:  Summer.  J. THOMSON.

  Champing his foam, and bounding o’er the plain,
  Arch his high neck, and graceful spread his mane.
The Courser.  SIR R. BLACKMORE.

  Is it the wind those branches stirs? 
  No, no! from out the forest prance
    A trampling troop; I see them come! 
  In one vast squadron they advance! 
    I strove to cry,—­my lips were dumb. 
  The steeds rush on in plunging pride;
  But where are they the reins to guide! 
  A thousand horse,—­and none to ride! 
  With flowing tail, and flying mane,
    Wide nostrils, never stretched by pain,
  Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
  And feet that iron never shod,
    And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,
  A thousand horse, the wild, the free,
  Like waves that follow o’er the sea,
    Came thickly thundering on.
Mazeppa.  LORD BYRON.