They could not end my rule; but left me still
To sit 'neath shade of thy Imperial shield—
Imperial locks beside Imperial shield—
Though all things else were ashes. Thy rich gift,
The Garter, made amends; but, Tracy, go;
I pray thee go; take back thy vulgar gift:
Why should the honest working man desire
To vary from the spendthrift race of men,
And part with hard-earned quarts of "fourpenny,"
Which good Sir Wilfrid calls the curse of all?