As passport to the Paphos fit for such,
Safe-conduct to her natural home the stews,—
Good! One had recognized the power o' the pulse.
But when he stands, the stock-fish,—sticks to law—
Offers the hole in his heart, all fresh and warm,
For scrivener's pen to poke and play about—
Can stand, can stare, can tell his beads perhaps,
Oh, let us hear no syllable o' the rage!
Such rage were a convenient afterthought
For one who would have shown his teeth belike,