Perked high his chin? Which doffed and ducked the knee?
Which tanned and sweat in the lean furrow? Which
Spat on the spade—and wore it in his crest?
Which was the real Adam? Sly Dame Clay,
If paradox died not in Genesis,
Let me not fancy Richard’s laureate
Alone’s incognito. Incognito
Are all that pass in nature’s pilgrimage,
For thou, with loamy masks and flesh-tint veils,
Dost make us, in this timeless carnival,