Classic Poem

Now in the patron's mansion see the wight,
Factious for power — a Son of Levi right!
Servile to squires, to vassals proud his mien,
As codex to inferior clergy seen.
He flatters till you blush, but when withdrawn,
'Tis his to slander, as 'twas his to fawn.
He pumps for secrets, pries o'er servants' ways,
And, like a meddling priest, can mischief raise,
And from such mischief thus can plead desert:
" 'Tis all my patron's int'rest at my heart."
Deep in his mind all wrongs from others live;
None more need pardon, and none less forgive.
At what does next his erudition aim?
To kill the footed and the feathered game.
Then this apostle, for a daintier dish,
With line, or net, shall plot the fate of fish.
In kitchen what the cookmaid calls a cot;
In cellar, with the butler brother sot.
Here too he corks, in brewhouse hops the beer;
Bright in the hall, his parts at whisk appear,
Dext'rous to pack, yet at all cheats exclaiming,
The priest has av'rice, av'rice itch of gaming,
And gaming fraud — but fair he strikes the ball,
And at the plain of billiards pockets all.
At tables now! — But oh, if gammoned there,
The startling echoes learn, like him, to swear!
Though ne'er at authors, in the study, seen,
At bowls, sagacious masters of the green.
A connoisseur, as cunning as a fox,
To bet on racers, or on battling cocks;
To preach o'er beer, in boroughs to procure
Voters, to make the squire's election sure:
For this, where clowns stare, gape, and grin, and bawl,
Free to buffoon his function to 'em all.
When the clod Justice some horse-laugh would raise,
Foremost the dullest of dull jokes to praise;
To say, or unsay, at his patron's nod;
To do the will of all — save that of God.
His int'rest the most servile part he deems,
Yet much he sways, where much to serve he seems:
He sways his patron, rules the lady most,
And as he rules the lady, rules the roast.
Old tradesmen must give way to new — his aim
Extorted poundage, once the steward's claim.
Tenants are raised; or, as his pow'r increases,
Unless they fine to him, renew no leases.
Thus tradesmen, servants, tenants, none are free;
Their loss and murmur are his gain and glee.
Lux'ry he loves; but, like a priest of sense,
Ev'n lux'ry loves not at his own expense.
Though harlot passions wanton with his will,
Yet av'rice is his wedded passion still.
See him with napkin, o'er his band, tucked in,
While the rich grease hangs glist'ning on his chin,
Or, as the dew from Aaron's beard declines,
Ev'n to his garment hem soft-trickling shines!
He feeds, and feeds, swills soup, and sucks up marrow,
Swills, sucks, and feeds, till lech'rous as a sparrow.
Thy pleasure, Onan, now no more delights,
The lone amusement of his chaster nights.
He boasts (let ladies put him to the test!)
Strong back, broad shoulders, and a well-built chest.
With stiff'ning nerves, now steals he sly away,
Alert, warm, chuckling, ripe for am'rous play;
Ripe to caress the lass he once thought meet
At church to chide, when penanced in a sheet.
He pants, the titillating joy to prove,
The fierce, short sallies of luxurious love.
Not fair Cadiere and confessor than they,
In straining transport, more lascivious lay.
Conceives her womb, while each so melts, and thrills?
He plies her now with love, and now with pills.
No more falls penance, clothed in shame, upon her;
These kill her embryo, and preserve her honour.