Though his black broadcloath glories to be seen
In the same plight with Shylock’s gaberdine,
Hugs the same passion to his narrow breast,
That heaves the cuirass on the trooper’s chest.
—
Heaven keep us all! Is every rascal clown,
Whose arm is stronger, free to knock us down?
Has every scarecrow, whose cachetic soul
Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on parole,
Who, though he carries but a doubtful trace