How perfect doth our epoch grow!

V.

Time was the flattering voice of fame,

His ruffian bravery adored,

And true, his pistol's faultless aim

An ace at fifteen paces bored.

But I must add to what I write

That, tipsy once in actual fight,

He from his Kalmuck horse did leap

In mud and mire to wallow deep,

Drunk as a fly; and thus the French

A valuable hostage gained,

A modern Regulus unchained,

Who to surrender did not blench

That every morn at Verrey's cost

Three flasks of wine he might exhaust.

VI.

Time was, his raillery was gay,

He loved the simpleton to mock,

To make wise men the idiot play

Openly or 'neath decent cloak.

Yet sometimes this or that deceit

Encountered punishment complete,

And sometimes into snares as well

Himself just like a greenhorn fell.

He could in disputation shine

With pungent or obtuse retort,

At times to silence would resort,

At times talk nonsense with design;

Quarrels among young friends he bred

And to the field of honour led;

VII.

Or reconciled them, it may be,

And all the three to breakfast went;

Then he'd malign them secretly