That lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone
Their growing follies, but themselves confined;
The bailiff grimly seized them for his own,
And turnkeys closed the gates on them behind.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
The King’s Bench terribly pulls down our pride
For high or lowly born, ’tis all the same.
Far from the city’s mad ignoble strife
They still retain an eager wish to stray;