Did ye not hear it? No; ’twas but a moke,
Or a cad yelling from the distant street;
On with the game! don’t interrupt the stroke;
No one should budge when two such players meet
To give us all an exhibition treat—
But hark! that fatal sound breaks in once more,
Alas! no pen its terrors could repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Fly! fly! it is-it is—the Proctor at the door!
Within a windowed niche of those low walls