Save where the votaries of Hodges meet,
And springing rattles sound the shrill alarm.
Save that from yonder lantern lighted walk,
The drowsy watchman bawls with clam’rous din,
At such as stopping in the streets to talk,
Omit the tribute of a glass of gin.
Beneath the roof, that ruin fraught retreat,
Where beams the fanlight o’er the guarded door,
Each wedg’d by numbers in his narrow seat,
The faithless gamblers chink their current ore.