And so displays his art. The sixth craze shifts
Into the fogy of the Tory club,
With well-dress’d jasey and with glass in eye,
The march of progress spreading far too wide
For his near views; or, haply, seen by choice
In some snug hostelry with port and pipe,
Where Tory talk abounds. Worst craze of all,
That seems the strangest in its mystery,
Is the ascetic zeal miscalled religion—
Saint This, Saint That, Saint T’other—Any one.