Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/171

 They are worthy to reign on their brothers, To contemn them as clods and as carles, Who are Graces by grace of such mothers As brightened the bed of King Charles. What manner of banner, What fame is this they flaunt, That Britain, soul-smitten, Should shrink before their vaunt?

Bright sons of sublime prostitution, You are made of the mire of the street Where your grandmothers walked in pollution Till a coronet shone at their feet. Your Graces, whose faces Bear high the bastard's brand, Seem stronger no longer Than all this honest land.