London is a roost for every bird.
London is the epitome of our times, and the Rome of to-day.
London! the needy villain's general home, The common sewer of Paris and of Rome! With eager thirst, by folly or by fate, Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.
The way was long and weary, But gallantly they strode, A country lad and lassie, Along the heavy road. The night was dark and stormy, But blithe of heart were they, For shining in the distance The lights of London lay. O gleaming lights of London, that gem of the city's crown; What fortunes be within you, O Lights of London Town!
The lungs of London. (Parks)
Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies.
I believe we shall come to care about people less and less. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It's one of the curses of London.
And when 'midst fallen London they survey The stone where Alexander's ashes lay, Shall own with humble pride the lesson just By Time's slow finger written in the dust.
She [the Roman Catholic Church] may still exist in undiminished vigour, when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's.
In the firm expectation that when London shall be a habitation of bitterns, when St. Paul and Westminster Abbey shall stand shapeless and nameless ruins in the midst of an unpeopled marsh, when the piers of Waterloo Bridge shall become the nuclei of islets of reeds and osiers, and cast the jagged shadows of their broken arches on the solitary stream, some Transatlantic commentator will be weighing in the scales of some new and now unimagined system of criticism the respective merits of the Bells and the Fudges and their historians.