Who fear my power and sneer upon my back;
A pageantry of lies where human worms,
Who crawl to-day, tomorrow get a sting
And use it on the hand that ’friended them.
I cannot mould the face to popular form,
And hide the thought behind the outward act.
And make good ill, ill good by royal patent.
Nay, I can scorn, and I can hate,—yea strike,
When rules the mood, yea, I’m a very devil;
But cheat myself and others to what I am,