In every step is a shadow of grace;
The ghost of a beauty haunts his face;
The rags half-sheltering him to-day,
Hang not on him in a beggarly way.
Rob, the Pauper, is crazed of brain:
The world is a lie to his shattered seeming.
No woman is true unless insane;
No man but is full of lecherous scheming.
Woe to the wretch, of whate'er calling,
That crouches beneath his cudgel's falling!