The sweetest she’d find in thy Glenfield-starched breast!
Potten Row shall be riderless, Kensington dark,
Ere the calves of that valet are driven from the Park!
Punch, April 20, 1872.
There’s not in all London a tavern so gay,
As that where the knowing ones meet of a day;
So long as a farthing remains to my share,
I’ll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere!
Yet it is not that comforts there only combine,