No live man (I cap thy assertion)
By argument ever could take hold
Of me. 'T was the dead thing, the clay-cold,
Which grinned 'Art thou so in a hurry
That out of warm light thou must scurry
And join me down here in the dungeon
Because, above, one 's Jack and one—John,
One 's swift in the race, one—a hobbler,
One 's a crowned king and one—a capped cobbler,
Rich and poor, sage and fool, virtuous, vicious?