And naught was left but bitter Hate--
We paid them in the coin they gave.
We strode as stalks a lion forth
At dawn, a lion wrathful-eyed;
Blows rained we, dealing shame on shame,
And humbling pomp and quelling pride.
Too kind a man may be with fools,
And nerve them but to flout him more;
And Mischief oft may bring thee peace,
When Mildness works not Folly's cure.