Here lies a wretch, arterially ill, Who forty years frequented Ludgate Hill, From whence, as furtively as any mouse, He hopped into a neighbouring printing house, And spent his days there, and his nights within, Or slept upon a floor in Lincoln's Inn. Cockney he was, and loved to see St. Paul's, Pauline himself, though schooled without the walls; And held all other places cheap and vile Save London City's famous one square-mile, And the last church he went to was St. Bride's. Now still he sits in sight of southern tides. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LANCELOT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON VARIATIONS FOR A SUMMER EVENING by MICHAEL ANANIA EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD by ROBERT BURNS THE BAT by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON TO LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD, WITH MR. DONNE'S SATIRES by BEN JONSON A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN (IN THE DORIC MANNER) by JONATHAN SWIFT |