Which seek through the world you’ll ne’er meet with elsewhere.
Place! place! sweet, sweet, place.
There’s nothing like place, No! there’s nothing like place.
An exile from place levees dazzle in vain.
Oh! give me my Downing Street house once again,
The subs slaving daily that came at my call,
Give me them, with a sinecure, dearer than all.
Place! place! sweet, sweet, place.
There’s nothing like place. No! there’s nothing like place.
Figaro in London. Sept. 22. 1832.