The well-dressed men who lean about the rail,
Who lift the hat so gracefully, and bow
To carriage beauties, languishing and pale,
Who wearily respond—where are they now?
Where is the prancing “life” of Rotten Row—
High blood of palaces, or clerk from marts?
Where the fair Amazon, dashing to and fro—
She who breaks horses—eke awhile breaks hearts?
Where are the gentle connoisseurs of flowers—
The languid saunterers through Covent Garden?