For not writing once, since from Clumpsted I came;
But, what with the whirl and confusion of town,
I declare I have scarcely had time to sit down.
We are now in "The Season;" by fashion's blest laws
Always fix'd at this point of the twelvemonth, because
To mope in the country's a terrible thing,
With nothing to watch but the progress of Spring,
As its cowslips and primroses burst from the ground,
And nought but the chirps of the wood-birds resound.
But how different London—one scene of delight!