No ardent gesture.

Society, which is our theme,
Is like a well-conducted stream
Which calmly ripples.
We sing the World where no one feels
Too pungently, or hates, or steals,
Or loves, or tipples.

And should you hint that down below
The subtle siren all men know
Is hiding _her_ face,
Our answer is: "That may be true,
But boudoir bards have nought to do
Save with the surface."

And therefore, though Society feel
The Proletariat's heavy heel
Its kibe approaching,
Some luxuries yet are left to sing,
The Opera-Box, the Row, the Ring,
And Golf, and Coaching.

Not e'en the Socialistic scare
The dandyish and the debonair
Has quite demolished;
Whilst Privilege hath still a purse,
There's yet a chance for flowing verse,
And periods polished.