Why comes not he?

Grim. For he's a puling spirit.

Why didst thou chuse a tender airy form,

Unequal to the mighty work of mischief?

His make is flitting, soft, and yielding atoms;

He trembles at the yawning gulph of hell,

Nor dares approach the flame, lest he should singe

His gaudy silken wings:

He sighs when he should plunge a soul in sulphur,

As with compassion touched of foolish men.