And we rattle in comfort and pleasure all night!
In the Country how pleasant our visits to make,
Thro’ ten miles of mud, for formality’s sake;
With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog,
And no thought in our head—but a ditch or a bog!
In London, if folks ill together are put,
A bore may be roasted, a quiz may be cut.
“In the Country your friends would feel angry and sore,
“Call an old maid a quiz, or a parson a bore.”
In the Country you’re nail’d like a pale in your park,