(Haply the brightest effort Lennox made),
I muse, or smoke, or read, or softly sleep.
Though uncouth squares, with shapeless sculpture deck’d,
I pass and give the tribute of a sigh—
Don’t care a pin what R. A.’s they elect,
Nor head the feud of Mapleson and Gye.
No more doth Beauty curl her lip in scorn
When the waltz-measure daintily we tread;
The four-horse Ascot drag with echoing horn
No more awakes me early from my bed.