Conspire to crowd poor justice out of life.
What can you do to counteract
This reckless, rushing cataract?
'Twill have its course for good or bad,
As it, indeed, has always had.

A dame in Paris play'd the Pythoness[21]
With much of custom, and, of course, success.
Was any trifle lost, or did
Some maid a husband wish,
Or wife of husband to be rid,
Or either sex for fortune fish,
Resort was had to her with gold,
To get the hidden future told.
Her art was made of various tricks,
Wherein the dame contrived to mix,
With much assurance, learned terms.
Now, chance, of course, sometimes confirms;
And just as often as it did,
The news was anything but hid.
In short, though, as to ninety-nine per cent.,
The lady knew not what her answers meant,
Borne up by ever-babbling Fame,
An oracle she soon became.
A garret was this woman's home,
Till she had gain'd of gold a sum
That raised the station of her spouse--
Bought him an office and a house.
As she could then no longer bear it,
Another tenanted the garret.