For thus it is. You flout at kings to--day. <br />To--morrow in your pride you shall stoop low <br />To a new tyrant who shall come your way, <br />And serve him meekly with mock--serious brow, <br />While the world laughs. I shall not laugh at you. <br />Your Bourbon, Bonaparte or Boulanger <br />Are foils to your own part of ingénue <br />Which moves me most, the moral of your play. <br />You have a mission in the world, to teach <br />All pride its level. Poet, prince and clown, <br />Each in your amorous arms has scaled the breach <br />Of his own pleasure and the world's renown. <br />Till with a yawn you turn, and from your bed <br />Kick out your hero with his ass's head.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xv/
