As, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear:
The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!)
Are lowering fast (what! higher still?)
And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!)
Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”
Go where we may, rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch—
And scarce a pin’s-head difference which—
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,