Oh, well, I'm aware, Sir, how ruthless rapacity
Loves to take shelter, with cunning mendacity
'Neath an old saw;
But well says the scribe that such "business" is crime, Sir,
And such would be but for gaps half the time, Sir,
'Twixt justice and law.

Bah! Many a man who's sheer rogue in reality,
Hides the harsh knave in the mask of "legality."
When 'tis too gross,
Robbery's rash, but austere orthodoxies
Countenance such things as modern match-boxes
Nine-farthings a gross!

From seven till ten, and sometimes to eleven,
For "six bob" a week. Ah! such life _must_ be heaven;
Whilst as for your "profit,"
That's bound to approach five-and-twenty per cent.,
That Sweaters shall thrive, let their tools be content
With starvation in Tophet.

To starve's bad enough, but to starve and to work
(Mrs. LABOUCHERE hints), the most patient may irk;
And the lady is right--
Business? On brutes who dare mouth such base trash,
_Mr. Punch_, who loves justice and sense, lays his lash,
With the greatest delight.

He knows the excuses advanced for the Sweater,
But bad is the best, and, until you find better,