Where are the gloves from Antoinette’s hand?
Where Oliver Goldsmith’s hose?
I do not search for the ships of Tyre—
The grave of Whittington’s cat
Would sooner set my spirit on fire—
Or even Beau Brummel’s hat.
And when I reflect that there are spots
In the world that I can’t find,
Where lie these same identical lots,
And many of this same kind,