So London's sons in night-cap woke,
In bed-gown woke her dames,
For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,
"The Playhouse is in flames."
And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tale its lustre lends
To every window-pane;
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,