And waste her sweetness, none know how or where.
Some cockney Petersham, that with whisker’d cheek
Once moved in Bond Street, Rotten Row, Pall Mall,
Some humble Mrs. Clarke[14] for rest may seek,
Some Burdett, guiltless quite of speaking well.
The applauses of admiring mobs to gain
To be to threats of ruin, prison, lost;
To see they have not spent their cash in vain,
And read their triumph in the Morning Post.