From rough patroles, who, stern and ungallant,
Molest her chill and solitary nap.
Beneath these humble roofs, these broken tiles,
Blown from their lay’rs when April winds were high,
On beds uncurtain’d, and in crowded files,
This narrow alley’s lab’ring tenants lie.
The pealing knocker at the pompous porch,
The fretful gabble of the elbow’d guest,
The clattering carriage, or the flaring torch,
Has never robb’d them of their lowly rest.