Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/583

Rh From divorces down to dresses,

Woman's frailties, Man's excesses:

All that life presents of evil

Make for him a constant revel.

You're his foe—for that he fears you,

And in absence blasts and sears you:

You're his friend—for that he hates you,

First obliges, and then baits you,

Darting on the opportunity

When to do it with impunity:

You are neither—then he'll flatter,

Till he finds some trait for satire;

Hunts your weak point out, then shows it,

Where it injures, to expose it

In the mode that's most insidious,

Adding every trait that's hideous—

From the bile, whose blackening river

Rushes through his Stygian liver.

Then he thinks himself a lover—

Why? I really can't discover,

In his mind, age, face, or figure;

Viper broth might give him vigour:

Let him keep the cauldron steady,

He the venom has already.

For his faults—he has but one;

'Tis but Envy, when all's done:

He but pays the pain he suffers,

Clipping, like a pair of Snuffers,

Light that ought to burn the brighter

For this temporary blighter.

He's the Cancer of his Species,

And will eat himself to pieces,—