Roused by the ’custom’d note, each stares around,
And sullen from th’ unfinish’d pipe retires.
Now from the common hall’s restriction free,
The sot’s full bottles in quick order move,
While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea,
And barbers’ daughters soothe with tales of love.
Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,
Save where the broken battlements among
The east wind murmurs through the shatter’d panes,
And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.