Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. 
   London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer: 
   Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan,
   And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
   Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
   And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
   To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;
   Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.