But often, by shrewd scrutiny, thou judgest to the good man's harm:
For it may be his hour of trial, or he slumbereth at his post,
Or he hath slain his foe, but not yet levelled the stronghold,
Or barely recovered of the wounds, that fleshed him in his fray with passion.
Also, of the worst, through prejudice, thou loosely shalt think well:
For none is altogether evil, and thou mayst catch him at his prayers:
There may be one small prize, though all beside be blanks;
A silver thread of goodness in the black serge-cloth of crime.
There is to whom all things are easy; his mind, as a master-key,
Can open, with intuitive address, the treasuries of art and science: