He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds. “’Tis my advice.”
So Pope he was; and when we flocked—its sacred slipper on—
To kiss his foot we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone—
That guarantee of lowlihead—eclipsed that star which shone!
Each eyed his fellow; one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish!
I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish:
Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”
Robert Browning.