And having drunk my fill, I stagger home.
No nimble link-boy guides my giddy steps,
But "through the palpable obscure, I grope
My uncouth way;" and if by chance I meet,
In their nocturnal rounds, the watch, I hail them
With soft and gentle speech; then thank the gods
That I've escaped so well, nor felt the weight
Of their hard fists, or their still harder staves.
At length, unhurt, I find myself at home,
And creep to my poor bed, where gentle sleep,