May I offer a working-class Victorian poem by an (as far as I can find) anonymous author? Enjoy:

Would you be a Great Lord? Let me shew you the way;
Too proud to be honest, a debt never pay;
Your fame and your fortune on prostitutes squander,
With a pimp in your coach, at your table a pander.
Or mount your own box, ‘tis by far the less evil,
That pimp and that pander drive post to the devil.
Roast a child for your sport, set the hamlet on fire,
Then cut down with your sword both the sun and the fire:
A terrible Colonel now bully and swagger,
And plant in the heart of your country—a dagger.

When sharpers have done you, regard my advice,
Repair with a bribe what you lost by the dice.
Think little—drink much—your best principles barter,
And instead of a rope be preferred with a garter.
Or a mime on the stage, and becoming your part,
In character act, and be still what thou art.
Does indigence ask? shut your purse and your door;
Distress is so shocking! God d—n all the poor!
Now job for a borough, now truck for a place,
Or stoop to a pension, and rise by disgrace;
And last to your friend let your kindness be shewn;
Be true to his wife—and be chaste to your own.

Now if thou art not a Great Lord, by St. Peter
Thou art a great rascal, in prose or in metre.