Old Pepys creeps past me in his chair,
And Congreve’s airs astound me,
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite,
Looked kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps—but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.
The street is still a lively tomb
For rich and gay and clever;
The crops of dandies bud and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.