Wind the window down
why should this deceive
something on the plain
flashes a fiery streak
Madame, you mistake
the luggage is all up
we'd best tell our
post-boys to go on
We only wish to avoid
a small hill
we'll soon get into
the right road
How far are we now—
half a league
from what's underlined
on the finger-post
A canter that's a gallop
in spite of my shouts
flung from one side
to the other
Into the court-yard
laconic answers
to the hotel steps
(or the House)
I'm a bungler at a long story
for cautious purity
I'd rather set the lapse
in one town
Ought not, I feel, to pass
over in silence
how a footman dissolves
in a gentleman's jug