If you face him at once, why, he promptly collapses;
He may hiss as he runs, he won't frighten a baby.
Be warned in good time—why there isn't a man, Sir,
Or at most one or two, whom the universe misses.
You strut for a moment, and then, like poor Anser,
You vanish, uncared-for, with splutter and hisses.
If a man cares to toil, if, like Broadhurst or Burt, he
Puts his neck to the yoke for the good of his fellows,
He will find work to do (though you scorn it as dirty),
Without all this labour of trumpet and bellows.