He ought by this time to have known—
(His chaste, night-wandering sister,
Who does contrive to glister,
She should have told him)—that London, day and night,
Is better lit by gas than by his sultry light.
Come, brighten up, great Fog, and don't look gloomy
While I can see you—for these eyes grow rheumy!
Clear up, for Heaven's and dear London's sakes:
For, while you're groping here, there's sad mistakes
Making in every possible direction,