Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof which holds

You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held

A thousand Treshams—never one like her!

No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick

Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness

To mix with breath as foul! no loosener

O' the lattice, practised in the stealthy tread,

The low voice and the noiseless come-and-go!

Not one composer of the bacchant's mien

Into—what you thought Mildred's, in a word!