Classic Poem

If we may trust the truth, this age of thine,
Great sire, in fame doth all the past outshine.
When could we look on triumphs better gained?
When have the gods more duly thanks obtained?
Beneath what chief was Rome so fair to see?
Under what prince enjoyed such liberty?
One fault there is and grievous, though but one;
A poor man gets no thanks for service done.
Who gives his wealth to old and loyal friends?
Who, when you've made him knight, his escort lends?
At Saturn's feast to give some silver spoons
Or yellow toga worth a few half-crowns
Our millionaires to-day most generous think,
And never let us hear the sovereigns chink.
Be thou, great sire, my friend and take their place:
No virtue more thy majesty could grace.
Methinks you smile and say with wrinkled nose —
" For his own profit he advice bestows."