The Age Reviewed A Satire: In two parts: Second edition, revised and corrected [by Robert Montgomery] |
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| I. |
| II. |
 | The Age Reviewed |  |
And in society, where rank and birth
Should shine—alike in dignity and worth,
Who has not mark'd with a contemptuous smile,
The mean presumption of the monied vile?
Th' inflated pomp of some disgusting tool
Who play'd the villain to a wealthy fool?—
Low-born himself, he sought some hoary knave
Whose dotage asked the service of a slave;
He clinch'd his lies, admir'd each smutty joke,
And when some blunder from the ideot broke,
Cried “excellent!—bravo!—delicious wit”!—
Then wooed his smile, and carved a dainty bit:
And if, perchance, some banish'd kinsman's name
Awoke the fury of his wrathful flame,—
Why, then the parasite would swell and glow,
As if he felt him for his deadly foe!
And cry—“and you, dear Sir, who was so kind!—
Oh! shocking, shameful!—most ignoble mind”!—
Ask you the reason for such tender art?
Money!—the master-key to every heart;
Jingle your cash,—and you may buy the land!—
Entreat a little,—go! and get ye hang'd!
Once king of rakes, Lothario mopes forgot,
With gout, neglect, and ruin for his lot!
No more the midnight haunt shall welcome him,
No more the light dance curve his shapely limb;
Nor Fashion's lean licentious crew attend
From noon to night, their dear delightful friend;
Wrinkles, and wasted wealth have banished all
Who praised his bottle, or adorn'd his ball!
At length, Compassion sends some wary tool
Tuned to the temper of a hoary fool;
Whate'er the scene—whate'er the trial be,
One sneaking, shuffling parasite is he!
Does Death's grim shadow rouse his patron's fear?
His eye hangs down, and drops a funeral tear!
Do pains rheumatic rack his rotten bones?
What son could pity with such tender tones!
And thus, till welcome death the wretch release,
Lock his lewd lips, and hush the curse to peace,—
When, dregs of fortune will repay his skill,
And Knav'ry chuckle o'er the dotard's will!
While doomed afar in Poverty's bleak dell,
Virtue and Want together hopeless dwell,
Ignoble art and impudence lay claim
To all the honours of exalted shame!
A bold broad front no meanness can abase,
A lying lip, and a deceitful face,
A ready wit for a dishonest plan—
These raise the fortune, though they sink the man.
Should shine—alike in dignity and worth,
66
The mean presumption of the monied vile?
Th' inflated pomp of some disgusting tool
Who play'd the villain to a wealthy fool?—
Low-born himself, he sought some hoary knave
Whose dotage asked the service of a slave;
He clinch'd his lies, admir'd each smutty joke,
And when some blunder from the ideot broke,
Cried “excellent!—bravo!—delicious wit”!—
Then wooed his smile, and carved a dainty bit:
And if, perchance, some banish'd kinsman's name
Awoke the fury of his wrathful flame,—
Why, then the parasite would swell and glow,
As if he felt him for his deadly foe!
And cry—“and you, dear Sir, who was so kind!—
Oh! shocking, shameful!—most ignoble mind”!—
Ask you the reason for such tender art?
Money!—the master-key to every heart;
Jingle your cash,—and you may buy the land!—
Entreat a little,—go! and get ye hang'd!
67
With gout, neglect, and ruin for his lot!
No more the midnight haunt shall welcome him,
No more the light dance curve his shapely limb;
Nor Fashion's lean licentious crew attend
From noon to night, their dear delightful friend;
Wrinkles, and wasted wealth have banished all
Who praised his bottle, or adorn'd his ball!
At length, Compassion sends some wary tool
Tuned to the temper of a hoary fool;
Whate'er the scene—whate'er the trial be,
One sneaking, shuffling parasite is he!
Does Death's grim shadow rouse his patron's fear?
His eye hangs down, and drops a funeral tear!
Do pains rheumatic rack his rotten bones?
What son could pity with such tender tones!
And thus, till welcome death the wretch release,
Lock his lewd lips, and hush the curse to peace,—
When, dregs of fortune will repay his skill,
And Knav'ry chuckle o'er the dotard's will!
68
Virtue and Want together hopeless dwell,
Ignoble art and impudence lay claim
To all the honours of exalted shame!
A bold broad front no meanness can abase,
A lying lip, and a deceitful face,
A ready wit for a dishonest plan—
These raise the fortune, though they sink the man.
| The Age Reviewed | |