So lamely and of such apparent patchwork
That men laugh at it as I talk to them,—
Why I, in this weak parody on peace,
Should scorn like these to pass away the time,
Mistaking much the shadow for the sun,
And braying forth their own deformity;
And therefore—though I cannot fall much lower
In all things needful in these latter days—
I envy not the braggartdom of Britain,
And hate the rampant rubbish of her ways,