And yet the print he knows and loves the best,
Is that which duly blushes once a week.
He never dances since the law shut up
His native haunt, where he could really go it,
And romp the pas-de-quatre, and shout and sup—
(Of course the Mayfair mothers did not know it).
He never dances—but he goes about,
And you will always meet him "everywhere,"
And sometimes after supper he'll sit out
A dance or two, provided she is fair.