Racine: Phaedra

THE KNIGHTS 191
Like a sovereign or a chief,
But so easy of belief.
Every fawning rogue and thief
Finds you ready to his hand,
Flatterers you cannot withstand.
To them your confidence is lent,
With opinions always bent
To what your last advisers say,
Your noble mind is gone astray.
Demus.—Those brains of yours are weak and green;
My wits are sound whate'er ye say
*Tis nothing but my froward spleen
That affects this false decay
'Tis my fancy, 'tis my way,
To drawl and drivel through the day.
But though you see me dote and dream,
Never think me what I seem
For my confidential slave
I prefer a pilfering knave
And when he's pampered and full-blown;
I snatch him up and—dash him down!
Chorus.—We approve of your intent,
If you spoke it as you meant;
If you keep them like the beasts.
Fattened for your future feasts.
Pampered in the public stall.
Till the next occasion call
Then a little easy vote
Knocks them down, and cuts their throat;
And you dish and serve them up,
As you want to dine or sup.
Demus.—Mark me!—When I seem to doze.
When my wearied eyelids close;
Then they think their tricks are hid:
But beneath the drooping lid,
Still I keep a corner left,
Tracing every secret theft.
I shall match them by and by!
All the rogues, you think so sly,
All the deep intriguing set,