Complaining that He had Fallen Among Thieves

Oh, Lytton, I have gambled with my soul, 
And, like a spendthrift, pawned my heritage 
To pitiless Jews, and paid a monstrous toll 
To knaves and usurers,—and all to wage 
Fair war with black-legs, men who dared to gauge 
My youth’s bright honour as an antique thing, 
A broadsword to their fencing point and edge. 
So the game went. And even yet I cling 
To my mad humour, reckoning up each stake, 
Each fair coin lost — O miserable slaves, 
Who for the sake of gold, the poorest thing 
Man ever won from the earth’s bosom, take 
To rope or poison, and who labour not 
Even to “dig dishonourable graves,” 
See one who has lost a pound for every groat, 
For every penny of your squandering!