I shrink into some corner penitential.
A well-dressed crowd, their tailors all unpaid,
Throng round you there, and cuffs and collars glisten;
Of pity's blindness, as of scorn, afraid,
I shun the merry fray, and darkling listen,
For who could urge the timidest of suits,
Conscious of such indifferent clothes and boots?
You think me quite as good as other men;
Nay, more, I think you think me vastly better;
Your candid glances seem to ask me when