Vented your fustian, let myself be streaked
Like tom-fool with your ochre and carmine,
Worn patchwork your respectable fingers sewed
To metamorphose somebody,—yes, I've earned
My wages, swallowed down my bread of shame,
And shake the crumbs off—where but in your face?
As for religion—why, I served it, sir!
I 'll stick to that! With my phenomena
I laid the atheist sprawling on his back,
Propped up Saint Paul, or, at least, Swedenborg!