When its quicksilver's down at zero,—lo!

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage!

Wheels whirl from Carlton Palace to Soho,

And happiest they who horses can engage;

The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row

Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age;

And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces,

Sigh—as the postboys fasten on the traces.