LXXII.

Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,

Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry,

As going at full speed—no matter where its

Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry,

And merely for the sake of its own merits;

For the less cause there is for all this flurry,

The greater is the pleasure in arriving

At the great end of travel—which is driving.