Unless Self pities Self, and it hurts the Soul
That it and flesh make an ill-smelling whole?
But, if strange that the sufferer thus made
To stand by, share the cruel insult paid
The carcase, being flesh and spirit, one,
Though feigned to feel, by now is past and gone,
And as Nothingness cannot feel it ill
For brutes to maul it, is not stranger still
The impulse rather to exult than mourn
When men foresee they shall hereafter burn