But whither shall I run? the throng draws nigh,
The ball now skims the street, now soars on high:
The dext'rous glazier strong returns the bound,
And jingling sashes on the pent-house sound.
Where Lincoln's-inn, wide space, is rail'd around,
Cross not with venturous step; there oft is found
The lurking thief, who, while the daylight shone,
Made the walls echo with his begging tone:
That crutch, which late compassion mov'd, shall wound
Thy bleeding head, and fell thee to the ground.