Even in his satchel: Then a soldier,
His youthful hose, of formal cut, sans taste,
Made to his shank, and full of modern saws,
Creeping like snail, sans everything, to school:
And then the justice, full of strange instances,
Jealous in honor, like the ’pard bearded
In quarrel, turning again, sudden and quick,
Towards childishness, with shining morning face
A world too wide for his shrunk nurses arms,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts,