For Love?

One hundred years ago, a splendid Wit,
The Idol of his Age, the most produced
Playwright, was rendered felon, hypocrite.
His bluff was called in court, and so he loosed
The Hounds of Hell upon himself. He chose
To listen to his lovely, dim, young friend,
Dared everything! and let the State expose
His life for what it was -- speeding the end.
Two years Hard Labour, Death were his reward;
He languished, deaf, abroad, broke, in disgrace.
He wrote: Some do it with a kiss, or sword . . .
I wonder how a Great Man can embrace
Such empty risks, create such scandal yet --
As Bill has, with another pert bimbette.