Stiff stand their collars, though their ties have wings.
What of their faces? Bloodshot eyes that blink,
And thick lips, framed for blasphemy and drink.
Here the grey hair, that should adorn the Sage,
Serves but to mark a weak, unhonoured age;
There on the boy pale cheeks proclaim the truth,
The faded emblems of a wasted youth.
All, all are loathsome in this motley crew,
The Peer, the Snob, the Gentile, and the Jew,
Young men and old, the greybeards and the boys,