All the way from Fleet Street to the Strand;
Even in the song the barmaid sings
I have found a fresh enchanted land.
Pass me by, you little vagrant joy.
Brush me from your delicate mimic world.
Nothing of you now can e'er annoy,
Since your beauty has my heart empearled.
Pass me by; and only let me say:
Glad I am for pain of loving you,
Glad—for, in the tumult of decay,