'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.

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

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.

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