You—you—who have the ordering of her choice,
If you shall only compass her disgrace,
When all men know, the wild mob’s million voice
Shall hurl you from your place—
But then—too late, too late!
John Carter.
The Laureate.—(On his Regrettable Decadency).
You—you—if you have ceased to understand
Why once your song did England’s heart enthral—