Sir John,[65] at last we’ve found their haunt
To desperation driven by hungry want,
Through the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way.
Ye towers of Newgate! London’s lasting shame,
By many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith’s[66] fame,
And spare the grinning barber’s chuckle head.
“Rascals! we tread ye under foot,
(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun):
Our beards we pull out by the root: