The waiters, too glad to have something to do,
Are eager to wait on the one man in town;
I get my pet chair, without strategy too,
And my button-hole’s free from the finger of Brown.
The Park is my own, I can loll as I will,
I can sit where I wish, I can dress as I please;
And at home or abroad, though a Londoner still,
I, with no one to censure, can live at my ease.
No longer condemned in a whirl to exist,
Nor my time in most senseless pursuits to employ,