And now, just as with hope young breasts are filled,
When young leaves still are verdant on the lime,
When diners-out are having a good time,
When Epsom's o'er and Ascot is at hand;
To cut all short, is scarcely less than crime.
Confusion on that wrangling party-band
Whose Dissolution deals the doldrums round the land!
Ah! wild and high those Phantom-fiddlings rise!—
All jocund June with palsying terror thrills;
Fashion sits frozen dead with staring eyes.