All jaded nags discarding,
To London drove this queen of love,
Enchanting Mrs. Mardyn.
'Though tides of love around her rove,
I fear she'll choose Pactolus—
In that bright surge bards ne'er immerge,
So I must e'en swim solus.
"Out, out, alas!" ill-fated gas,
That shin'st round Covent Garden,
Thy ray how flat, compared with that