Thro’ a long lane of lacqueys you meet your hard fate,
Screw’d in and screw’d out of a damn’d narrow gate.
X.
Then how cursedly civil when folks in town roam,
To leave cards with their friends, when they know they’re from home;
In the country, glad welcome our visits attends,
We’ve no humbugging, card-dropping, shy-fighting friends.
XI.
In London, while day-light, not long are you clean;
At night you’re bug bitten, scarce fit to be seen;