The Bookshelf

I wander thro' each charter'd street.

Near where the charter'd Thames does flow

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man.

In every Infants cry of fear.

In every voice; in every ban.

The mind-forg'd manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry

Every blackning Church appalls.

And the hapless Soldiers sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro' midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlots curse

Blasts the new-born Infants tear

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse