Streetward, do service to no shrine inside,—
Mounts thither by the filthy flight of stairs,
Holding the cord by the wall, to the tip-top,
Gropes for the door i' the dark, ajar of course,
Raps, opens, enters in: up starts a thing
Naked as needs be—"What, you rogue, 't is you?
Back,—how can I have taken a farthing yet?
Mercy on me, poor sinner that I am!
Here 's ... why, I took you for Madonna's self
With all that sudden swirl of silk i' the place!