Raymond found in both his mother-in-law and Sir John Horner friends capable of appreciating his fine flavour.  He wrote with ease and brilliance both prose and poetry.  I will quote two of his poems: 

    In praise of young girls

    Attend, my Muse, and, if you can, approve
    While I proclaim the “speeding up” of Love;
    For Love and Commerce hold a common creed—­
    The scale of business varies with the speed;
    For Queen of Beauty or for Sausage King
    The Customer is always on the wing—­
    Then praise the nymph who regularly earns
    Small profits (if you please) but quick returns. 
    Our modish Venus is a bustling minx,
    But who can spare the time to woo a Sphinx? 
    When Mona Lisa posed with rustic guile
    The stale enigma of her simple smile,
    Her leisure lovers raised a pious cheer
    While the slow mischief crept from ear to ear. 
    Poor listless Lombard, you would ne’er engage
    The brisker beaux of our mercurial age
    Whose lively mettle can as easy brook
    An epic poem as a lingering look—­
    Our modern maiden smears the twig with lime
    For twice as many hearts in half the time. 
    Long ere the circle of that staid grimace
    Has wheeled your weary dimples into place,
    Our little Chloe (mark the nimble fiend!)
    Has raised a laugh against her bosom friend,
    Melted a marquis, mollified a Jew,
    Kissed every member of the Eton crew,
    Ogled a Bishop, quizzed an aged peer,
    Has danced a Tango and has dropped a tear. 
    Fresh from the schoolroom, pink and plump and pert,
    Bedizened, bouncing, artful and alert,
    No victim she of vapours and of moods
    Though the sky falls she’s “ready with the goods”—­
    Will suit each client, tickle every taste
    Polite or gothic, libertine or chaste,
    Supply a waspish tongue, a waspish waist,
    Astarte’s breast or Atalanta’s leg,
    Love ready-made or glamour off the peg—­
    Do you prefer “a thing of dew and air”? 
    Or is your type Poppaea or Polaire? 
    The crystal casket of a maiden’s dreams,
    Or the last fancy in cosmetic creams? 
    The dark and tender or the fierce and bright,
    Youth’s rosy blush or Passion’s pearly bite? 
    You hardly know perhaps; but Chloe knows,
    And pours you out the necessary dose,
    Meticulously measuring to scale,
    The cup of Circe or the Holy Grail—­
    An actress she at home in every role,
    Can flout or flatter, bully or cajole,
    And on occasion by a stretch of art
    Can even speak the language of the heart,
    Can lisp and sigh and make confused replies,
    With baby lips and complicated eyes,
    Indifferently apt to weep or wink,
    Primly pursue, provocatively shrink,
    Brazen or bashful, as the