The house was closed—I guess’d the reason—
“Is Lady B.’s grand-aunt, then, gone?”—
“To Ramsgate, sir!—until next season!”
I sauntered on to Harry Gray’s,
The ennui of my heart to lighten;
His landlady, with, smirk and smile,
Said, “he had just run down to Brighton.”
When home I turned my steps, at last,
A tailor—whom to kick were treason—
Pressed for his bill;—I hurried past,