Save where some rumbling Hack directs its way,
Or frequent tinklings rouse the tavern-bar:
Save that, at yonder iron-grated tower,[3]
The watchmen to the constable complain
Of such as, in defiance to his power,
Molest their ancient, solitary reign.
Beneath those butchers stalls, that pent-house shade,
Where rankling offals fret in many a heap,
Each in his nasty stye of garbage laid,
The dextrous sons of Buckhorse stink and sleep.