Finish’d an hour and a quarter under time,
Without a case for surgeon or attorney,
Just as St. James’s rang its seventh chime,
And now, descending from his seat sublime,
Behold Lorenzo, weariest of wights,
In that great core of brick, and stone, and lime,
Call’d England’s Heart—but which, as seen of nights,
Has rather more th’ appearance of its lights.
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