This gentleman stretched at his ease,

Looked monstrously wise and complacent.

How green the umbrageous trees!

How verdant the country adjacent!

Would anyone hint, save a pump,

That he is not high equity's model?

"Stand down, Mr. Critic, or—" thump!

The Sage receives one for his noddle.

Gravitation from Magistrates' rules is exempt,

And a pippin you cannot commit for contempt.

Little Public Opinion will reck,

Though austere Rhadamanthus should chide it,

And even a haughty Home Sec.,

In vain will assume to deride it.

It does not fear satire or scathe

From Minos, though knowing and nobby,

And certainly won't pin its faith,

To the Bench's pet fetish, the Bobby.

To make him an oracle's coming it strong,

For even a Constable sometimes goes wrong.

Our Newton's "Principia" too,

Punch rejects in a fashion emphatic.

No, Shallow, my boy, they won't do,

They're at least as absurd as dogmatic.

The Curfew you'd better restore;

You'd no doubt be delighted to do so,

But you won't close the West-End at four,

Until, like poor Robinson Crusoe,

Or Selkirk, you're "monarch of all you survey,"

Which won't be, my Newton, this many a day.

Nay, things have not come to that pass;

And Matthews's obstinate backing,

Will not close the case against Cass.

Sound sense seems abundantly lacking

In Courts and in Cabinets too;

And Public Opinion will grapple

With bunglers like Matthews and you;

So Newton, my boy, 'ware the apple!

You'll probably spy out a lesson or two,

In this story, that's old, with a moral that's new!