VIII.

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill;

Sunset the time, the place the same declivity

Which looks along that vale of Good and Ill

Where London streets ferment in full activity,

While everything around was calm and still,

Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he

Heard,—and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum

Of cities, that boil over with their scum:—

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