For where’s the middle, where’s the border?
Thy carpet now is all disorder.”
Quoth Dick, “My work is yet in bits,
But still in every part it fits:
Besides, you reason like a lout,
Why, man, that carpet’s inside out.”
Says John, “Thou say’st the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.