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by the ills that war Had drawn upon unhappy France, Pleasure sought in regions far, Encouragement and countenance. Through Germany and Spain to pass Was weary work for miles and miles, The Spaniard never jokes, alas! And the German never smiles.

To Russia next. His hopes are vain: The killing climate, in a week, Benumbed and sickened all his train, And robbed the colours from his cheek. By Catherine he was begged to take The halls of snow that flashed like gold; But could he, even for her sake, Expose his life to death by cold?

To England now. He wandered wild, And on the same fool's-errand bent; The Lord Mayor, fat, grey and mild, Conducted him to Parliament. Pleasure is courteous, full of grace, But from the truth he never shrinks: 'I cannot stay i' this horrid place, Where each one yawns and no one thinks.'