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6
A PLEA FOR THE
XI.
Just such bosoms used to nurse you!
Men, turned wolves by famine—pass;
Those can speak themselves, and curse you.
XII.
Spilt like blots about the city,
Quay, and street, and palace-wall—
Take them up into your pity!
XIII.
Whom the angels in white raiment
Know the names of, to repeat
When they come on you for payment.
XIV.
Huddled up out of the coldness
On your doorsteps, side by side,
Till your footman damns their boldness.
