I wander through each chartered street,
       Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
       A mark in every face I meet,
       Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
       In every cry of every man,
       In every infant's cry of fear,
       In every voice, in every ban,
       The mind-forged manacles I hear:
       How the chimney-sweeper's cry
       Every blackening church appals,
       And the hapless soldier's sigh
       Runs in blood down palace-walls.
       But most, through midnight streets I hear
       How the youthful harlot's curse
       Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
       And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.