He grins. When pious son at funeral pile
5
Mourns, or lone mother sobs for sole lost son,
He grins. Whate'er, whene'er, howe'er is done,
Of deed he grins. Such be his malady,
Nor kind, nor courteous—so beseemeth me—
Then take thou good Egnatius, rede of mine!
10
Wert thou corrupt Sabine or a Tiburtine,
Stuffed Umbrian or Tuscan overgrown