All the world is graft,
And all the men and women merely grafters.
They have their sure things and their bunco games,
And one man in his time works many grafts,
His bluffs being seven ages. At first the infant
Conning his dad until he walks the floor;
And then the whining schoolboy, poring o'er his book,
Jollying his teacher into marking him
A goodly grade. And then the lover,
Making each maiden think that she
Is but the only one. And then the soldier,
Full of strange words and bearded like a pard,
Seeking the bubble reputation,
Even in the magazines. And then the justice,
Handing out the bull con to the bench
And jollying the jury till it thinks
He knows it all. The sixth age shifts
To lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose--his is a graft!
For he is then the Old Inhabitant
And all must hear him talk. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans graft, sans pull, sans cinch, sans everything.
_Chicago Tribune._