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