They say, my lord, that you're a Warwick. Well,
    The title's an absurd one, I believe:
  You make no kings, you have no kings to sell,
    Though really 'twere easy to conceive
    You stuffing half-a-dozen up your sleeve.
  No, you're no Warwick, skillful from the shell
  To hatch out sovereigns. On a mare's nest, maybe,
  You'd incubate a little jackass baby.

  I fancy, too, that it is naught but stuff,
    This "power" that you're said to be "behind
  The throne." I'm sure 'twere accurate enough
    To represent you simply as inclined
    To push poor Markham (ailing in his mind
  And body, which were never very tough)
  Round in an invalid's wheeled chair. Such menial
  Employment to low natures is congenial.

  No, Dan, you're an impostor every way:
    A human bubble, for "the earth," you know,
  "Hath bubbles, as the water hath." Some day
    Some careless hand will prick your film, and O,
    How utterly you'll vanish! Daniel, throw
  (As fallen Woolsey might to Cromwell say)
  Your curst ambition to the pigs—though truly
  'Twould make them greater pigs, and more unruly.