Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;
Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine,
Their prudent insults to the poor confine;
Afar they mark the flambeaux's bright approach,
And shun the shining train, and golden coach.

In vain, these dangers past, your doors you close,
And hope the balmy blessings of repose:
Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,
The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar;
Invades the sacred hour of silent rest, 240
And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.

Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die,
With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.
Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band!
Whose ways and means support the sinking land,
Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring
To rig another convoy for the king.[6]

A single jail, in Alfred's golden reign,
Could half the nation's criminals contain;
Fair Justice then, without constraint adored, 250
Held high the steady scale, but sheathed the sword;
No spies were paid, no special juries known,
Blest age! but, ah! how different from our own!

Much could I add--but see the boat at hand,
The tide retiring, calls me from the land:
Farewell!--When, youth, and health, and fortune spent