Well, through a curious stroke of luck, That very afternoon he struck A new concern, in which, By industry and honest ways, He grew (to his eternal praise!) In something less than sixty days Inordinately rich. Let me describe what he became The day that he succeeded,-- Though, in the searching light that Fame Has cast on that immortal name, The task is hardly needed. The world has very rarely seen A deeper gulf than stood between The men who were my friends. And, speaking frankly, I confess They never cared to meet, unless It served their private ends. Sin loved the bottle, William gold; ’Twas Blood that bought and Sin that sold, In all their mutual dealings. Blood never broke the penal laws; Sin did it all the while, because He had the finer feelings. Blood had his dreams, but Sin was mad: While Sin was foolish, Blood was bad, Sin, though I say it, was a cad. (And if the word arouses Some criticism, pray reflect How twisted was his intellect, And what a past he had!) But Blood was exquisitely bred, And always in the swim, And people were extremely glad To ask him to their houses. Be not too eager to condemn: It was not he that hunted them, But they that hunted him. In this fair world of culture made For men of his peculiar trade, Of all the many parts he played, The part he grew to like the best Was called “the self-respecting guest.” And for that very reason He found himself in great request At parties in the season, Wherever gentlemen invest, From Chelsea to Mayfair. From Lath and Stucco Gate, S.W., To 90, Berkeley Square. The little statesmen in the bud, The big provincial mayor, The man that owns a magazine, The authoress who might have been; They always sent a card to Blood, And Blood was always there. At every dinner, crush or rout, A little whirlpool turned about The form immoveable and stout, That marked the Millionaire. [Illustration ** Men in evening dress (tailcoats), with Blood, who is quite stout, in the center.] Sin (you remember) could not stay In any club for half a day, When once his name was listed; But Blood belonged to ninety-four, And would have joined as many more Had any more existed. Sin at a single game would lose A little host of I.O.U.’s, And often took the oath absurd To break the punters or his word Before it was completed. Blood was another pair of shoes: A man of iron, cold and hard, He very rarely touched a card, But when he did he cheated.[2] [2]