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