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Sir Denys died, bequeathing all affairs
In trust to Laughton’s long-experienced cares;
Before a Guardian, and Sir Denys dead,
All rule and power devolved upon his head,
Numbers are call’d to govern, but in fact
Only the powerful and assuming act. 
   Laughton, too wise to be a dupe to fame,
Cared not a whit of what descent he came,
Till he was rich; he then conceived the thought
To fish for pedigree, but never caught: 
All his desire, when he was young and poor,
Was to advance; he never cared for more: 
“Let me buy, sell, be factor, take a wife,
Take any road, to get along in life.” 
   Was he a miser then? a robber? foe
To those who trusted? a deceiver?—­No! 
He was ambitious; all his powers of mind
Were to one end controll’d, improved, combined;
Wit, learning, judgment, were, by his account,
Steps for the ladder he design’d to mount;
Such step was money:  wealth was but his slave,
For power he gain’d it, and for power he gave: 
Full well the Borough knows that he’d the art
Of bringing money to the surest mart;
Friends too were aids,—­they led to certain ends,
Increase of power and claim on other friends. 
A favourite step was marriage:  then he gain’d
Seat in our Hall, and o’er his party reign’d;
Houses and land he bought, and long’d to buy,
But never drew the springs of purchase dry,
And thus at last they answer’d every call,
The failing found him ready for their fall: 
He walks along the street, the mart, the quay,
And looks and mutters, “This belongs to me.” 
His passions all partook the general bent;
Interest inform’d him when he should resent,
How long resist, and on what terms relent: 
In points where he determined to succeed,
In vain might reason or compassion plead;
But gain’d his point, he was the best of men,
’Twas loss of time to be vexatious then: 
Hence he was mild to all men whom he led,
Of all who dared resist, the scourge and dread. 
   Falsehood in him was not the useless lie
Of boasting pride or laughing vanity: 
It was the gainful, the persuading art,
That made its way and won the doubting heart,
Which argued, soften’d, humbled, and prevail’d,
Nor was it tried till ev’ry truth had fail’d;
No sage on earth could more than he despise
Degrading, poor, unprofitable lies. 
   Though fond of gain, and grieved by wanton waste,
To social parties he had no distaste;
With one presiding purpose in his view,
He sometimes could descend to trifle too! 
Yet, in these moments, he had still the art
To ope the looks and close the guarded heart;
And, like the public host, has sometimes made
A grand repast, for which the guests have paid. 
   At length, with power endued and wealthy grown,
Frailties and passions, long suppress’d, were shown: 
Then to provoke him was a dangerous thing,