William Hone,
The Queen's Matrimonial Ladder
“ Fat, fifty-eight, and frisky, still a beau, Grasping a half-made match; by Leech-light go; Led by a passion, prurient, blind, and letter'd, Lame, bloated, pointless, flameless, age'd and shatter'd; Creeping, like Guy Fawkes, to blow up his wife, Whom, spurn'd in youth, he dogs through after-life. Scorn'd, exiled, baffled, goaded in distress, She owes her safety to a fearless Press: With all the freedom that it makes its own, It guards, alike, the people and their throne; While fools with darkling eye-balls shun its gaze, And soaring villains scorch beneath its blaze. ”
