Young Peer[18], be wise, and if you court success, Outdo your senior[19] by attempting less. His failure served great talents to produce; But what is intellect if not of use? Well could he coin a doubt, or problem make-- But slow to solve, and there was his mistake. His brains were sound; but little good they did. Like some rich jewel in dark cavern hid. Quick was his mind each error to perceive;-- Much craft had those who could that mind deceive-- A moment’s thought would often shew a flaw, Which those who look’d much deeper never saw. Well was he skill’d to crack a wretched jest, And all who laughed were sure to be caress’d. He bore no rival in his high career, As Leach[20] can tell, at whom he lov’d to sneer;-- To Flattery he yielded blind assent; On those who blam’d him hate itself was spent; This Brougham[21] has felt,--tho’ all his merit own, Deprived by malice of a silken gown. And yet his visage, like a crocodile Intending mischief, still could wear the smile. Oft times a tear-drop down his cheek would flow, While aged victims told their tale of woe-- Told of their hopes delay’d and run to waste, With wealth before them, which they could not taste-- Told of their starving babes and buried wife,-- Themselves just tottering on the brink of life. Then would he clasp his hands with false intent, And call on heaven to witness what he meant, With promise send the discontent away,-- Their judgment certain on a future day. It comes--again he feigns the ready tear,-- As God’s his judge, the papers are not here-- Where can they be?--his careful wife[22] perhaps Has torn the dusty lumber into scraps. Mishap unfortunate! the suitor cries, His Lordship nods assent, and wipes his eyes With ’kerchief clean, in which a potent leak Draws from each orb the stream that wets his cheek. “Alas! my lord, when will the judgment come?-- “Send me the papers, and I’ll take them home.” The papers got, be sure to hand them in, Tho’ Hand[23] to take them deem it half a sin, And swears the mass now in his Lordship’s house Has left no cranny for the smallest mouse. This all results from pre-concerted plan; The master trifles, why should not his man; Excuse, the judgment day by day protracts, His mind still wavering, or forgot the facts; And yet he seems not unabashed by shame, Thus forced in self-defence the lie to frame. As carelessly around his glance he throws, Each eye takes shelter underneath his brows, Then with apparent calmness in the face, He strives to meet you, but ’tis all grimace; Look as he will, the thinking mind can see He half detests his own duplicity; Shrinks from the gaze of those who weep around, And in his bosom feels a deeper wound. Oft have I marked him in an inward trance,