The World’s Tragedy

PROEM. XLI Murder poor Wakley — the assassin leaves Escorted by the Yard’s blackmailing thieves, Lest dead men (or their papers) should tell tales And maybe compromise the Prince of Wales. Arrest poor Wilde — the creaking Channel tubs Groan with the consternation of the Clubs. Scared, hushed, and pale, our men of eminence Wait the result in sickening suspense. Announced, all Mayfair shrieks its decent joy ; And, feeling safe, goes out and hires a boy. Your titles — oh ! how proud you are to wear them ? — What about “ homo quatuor literarum ? ” The puissant all their time to vice devote ; The impotent (contented) pay to gloat. The strumpet’s carwheels splash the starving maiden In Piccadilly, deadlier than Aden. “ England expects a man to do his duty. ” He calls truth lies, and sneers at youth and beauty, Pays cash for love and fancies he has won it — Duty means church, where he thanks God he’s done it ! Morley’s Hotel is the one stance to see Our Nelson from ! — Oh God ! that I should be Alone among this slime ! — I saw Thy Graal : Show me the men that have not bowed to Baal !