When he sees another snatch the prize
Out from under his very eyes,
For which he would barter his soul? You see
I taught him his art from first to last:
Whatever he was he owed to me.
And then to be browbeat, overpassed,
Stealthily jeered behind the hand!
Why that was more than a saint could stand;
And I was no saint. And if my soul,
With a pride like Lucifer's, mocked control,