And so he serves his turn. The sixth vote’s given
Unto the mighty Tory landowner,
With a fine porty nose, and gout beside,
His ancient views—grown old—an age too late
For this sharp world; and his high handed mode
Turn ’gainst him all but sycophants, who’ll pipe
And whistle at his bid. Last vote of all,
To end this string of partisans, is given
To worthless “Turncoats,” mere title hunters,
Sans pride, sans shame, sans soul, sans principle.