High Lord of Liars, Pickering, to thee
  Let meaner mortals bend the subject knee!
  Thine is mendacity's imperial crown,
  Alike by genius, action and renown.
  No man, since words could set a cheek aflame
  E'er lied so greatly with so little shame!
  O bad old man, must thy remaining years
  Be passed in leading idiots by their ears—
  Thine own (which Justice, if she ruled the roast
  Would fasten to the penitential post)
  Still wagging sympathetically—hung
  the same rocking-bar that bears thy tongue?

  Thou dog of darkness, dost thou hope to stay
  Time's dread advance till thou hast had thy day?
  Dost think the Strangler will release his hold
  Because, forsooth, some fibs remain untold?
  No, no—beneath thy multiplying load
  Of years thou canst not tarry on the road
  To dabble in the blood thy leaden feet
  Have pressed from bosoms that have ceased to beat
  Of reputations margining thy way,
  Nor wander from the path new truth to slay.
  Tell to thyself whatever lies thou wilt,
  Catch as thou canst at pennies got by guilt—
  Straight down to death this blessed year thou'lt sink,
  Thy life washed out as with a wave of ink.
  But if this prophecy be not fulfilled,
  And thou who killest patience be not killed;
  If age assail in vain and vice attack
  Only by folly to be beaten back;
  Yet Nature can this consolation give:
  The rogues who die not are condemned to live!