The sneer from Tory bench, each night’s delay,
The seeking after office, and the groans
The patient member meets with when he speaks,
When he himself might their quietus make
In the wrong lobby? Who would measures hear
For which, he voting, acts an endless lie;
But that the dread of something afterwards,
The represented “county” from whose poll
No renegade returns,—puzzles the will!
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,