if any thought e’er flitted in his head

belonging to the sphere of bland and crocky,

it was to wish the team all thorough-bred,

and every buckle on their backs a jockey:

[pg 323]

when spinning down a steep descent, or rocky,

he never watch’d the wheel, and long’d to lock it,

he liked the bolters that set off so cocky:

nor did it shake a single nerve or shock it

because the comet raced against the rocket.

thanks to which rivalry, at last the journey

finish’d an hour and a quarter under time,

without a case for surgeon or attorney,

just as st. james’s rang its seventh chime,

and now, descending from his seat sublime,

behold lorenzo, weariest of wights,

in that great core of brick, and stone, and lime,

call’d england’s heart—but which, as seen of nights,

has rather more th’ appearance of its lights.