As neat as they set out. But in their minds,
(Impenetrable masks), their tired thoughts
Succeed each other, feeble and fatigued.
One, after supper and a game of whist,
Will rest his run-down clock-work on a bed.
The gas-lamps prick their whiteness in the skies,
The footsteps of a weary harlot’s tread
Remind the street that there is sin abroad.
But dismally sin ever fails to lure