Lord Byron's Verses on Sam Rogers

Lines:78Movement:Romanticism

QUESTION. Nose and Chin that make a knocker,Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker;Mouth that marks the envious Scorner,With a Scorpion in each cornerCurling up his tail to sting you,In the place that most may wring you;Eyes of lead-like hue and gummy,Carcase stolen from some mummy,Bowels--(but they were forgotten,Save the Liver, and that's rotten),Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden,Form the Devil would frighten G--d in.Is't a Corpse stuck up for show,Galvanized at times to go?With the Scripture has't connection,New proof of the Resurrection?Vampire, Ghost, or Goul (_sic_), what is it?I would walk ten miles to miss it. ANSWER. Many passengers arrest one,To demand the same free question.Shorter's my reply and franker,--That's the Bard, and Beau, and Banker:Yet, if you could bring aboutJust to turn him inside out,Satan's self would seem less sooty,And his present aspect--Beauty.Mark that (as he masks the bilious)Air so softly supercilious,Chastened bow, and mock humility,Almost sickened to Servility:Hear his tone (which is to talkingThat which creeping is to walking--Now on all fours, now on tiptoe):Hear the tales he lends his lip to--Little hints of heavy scandals--Every friend by turns he handles:All that women or that men doGlides forth in an inuendo (_sic_)--Clothed in odds and ends of humour,Herald of each paltry rumour--From divorces down to dresses,Woman's frailties, Man's excesses:All that life presents of evilMake for him a constant revel.You're his foe--for that he fears you,And in absence blasts and sears you:You're his friend--for that he hates you,First obliges, and then baits you,Darting on the opportunityWhen to do it with impunity:You are neither--then he'll flatter,Till he finds some trait for satire;Hunts your weak point out, then shows it,Where it injures, to expose itIn the mode that's most insidious,Adding every trait that's hideous--From the bile, whose blackening riverRushes through his Stygian liver. Then he thinks himself a lover--Why? I really can't discover,In his mind, age, face, or figure;Viper broth might give him vigour:Let him keep the cauldron steady,He the venom has already. For his faults--he has but _one_;'Tis but Envy, when all's done:He but pays the pain he suffers,Clipping, like a pair of Snuffers,Light that ought to burn the brighterFor this temporary blighter.He's the Cancer of his Species,And will eat himself to pieces,--Plague personified and Famine,--Devil, whose delight is damning.For his merits--don't you know 'em?Once he wrote a pretty Poem.