By some swift judgment from his face were torn,
So might the outer quell the inner scorn.
Such self-contempt befell him, when the feast
Rang with his praise, he blushed from nape to crown,
And ground his teeth in silence, yet had ceased
To bear it, crying, “Crush me not quite down,
Who ask your scorn, as viler than you deem
Your vilest, and am nothing that I seem!”
With such a cry his conscience riotous
Had thrown, perchance, the burden on it laid,