'Tis the cruel gripe, / That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts, / The hope of better things, the chance to win, / The wiſh to ſhine, the thirſt to be amus'd, / That at the found of Winter's hoary wing, / Unpeople all our counties, of ſuch herds, / Of flutt'ring, loit'ring, cringing, begging, looſe, / And wanton vagrants, as make London, vaſt / And boundless as it is, a crowded coop.

“Why, yes,” said Augustus, “the birds seem to be the first ones up each morning, awakening the sleepyheads.”

And he was waving to me to creep in, so I just did and then just to skip ben the front and then in the lobby.

Well I am a Caulkhead (islandborn) so I think it is beautiful.