Each minute round his whirling humours run,
Now he's a trooper, and a priest anon,
To-day in buff, to-morrow in a gown.[1]
Yet, pleased with idle whimsies of his brain,
And puffed with pride, this haughty thing would fain
Be thought himself the only stay and prop,
That holds the mighty frame of nature up;
The skies and stars his properties must seem,
And turnspit angels tread the spheres for him;[2]
Of all the creatures he's the lord, he cries,
More absolute than the French King of his.
’And who is there,' say you, ’that dares deny
So owned a truth?’ That may be, sir, do I.
But to omit the controversy here,
Whether, if met, the passenger and bear,
This or the other stands in greater fear;
Or, if an act of parliament should pass
That all the Irish wolves should quit the place,
They'd straight obey the statute's high command,
And at a minute's warning rid the land;
This boasted monarch of the world, that awes
The creatures here, and with his beck gives laws;
This titular King, who thus pretends to be
The lord of all, how many lords has he? [3]
The lust of money, and the lust of power,
With love and hate, and twenty passions more,
Hold him their slave, and chain him to the oar.
Scarce has soft sleep in silence closed his eyes,
’Up!' straight says Avarice, ’'tis time to rise.’
Not yet: one minute longer. 'Up!' she cries.
The Exchange and shops are hardly open yet.
'No matter: Rise!' But after all, for what?
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MONSIEUR BOILEAU, IMITATED.
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