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The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, Carries his house with him where'er he goes; Peeps out,—and, if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain. Touch but a tip of him, a horn—'tis well,— He curls up in his sanctuary shell. He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. Himself he boards and lodges; both invites And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure Chattels; himself is his own furniture, And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam,— Knock when you will,—he's sure to be at home. |