A SLIM GILT SOUL 
111 
 
Quickened, when afterwards your help 
He needed, to a currish yelp. 
 
Now—so the wheel of Fortune whirls !— 
Your kindly love for little girls 
And ardour for the fine old faith 
Makes all that past a wisp, a wraith. 
You patronise our Sunday schools, 
Pronounce on Grammar’s darkest rules, 
Rebuke bad taste, irreverence, 
Heresy, humbug, and pretence. 
Your tepid verses come like boons 
To cheer Suburban afternoons ;   
While Asquith, were he only wise, 
Would bid a Board of Morals rise ;   
Sure no one like yourself can be 
Past-Master in Virginity. 
 
Stay !  if so well you play the rôles, 
Why not enact dramatic scrolls ?   
You would be welcome on the stage 
To amuse and to instruct the age 
—A shining light in Opera-Bouffe :   
Giton, and Judas, and Tartufe !