As well the Eagle's self might be expected
To second the small jay!
My shadow, mine?
Yes, but distorted by the skew-cast ray
Of a far lesser sun than lit the noon
Of my meridian glory. So I spurn
The shrunken simulacrum!
And they shriek,
Shout censure at me, the cur-crowd who crouched,
Ere that a woman's hate and a boy's pride
Smote me, the new Abimelech, so sore;
They'd hush me, like a garrulous greybeard, chaired
At the hearth-corner out of harm; they'd hush
My voice--the valorous vermin! What say they?
"_That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud_;
_Loves not the common people!_" Humph! I stand
As MARCIUS would not, in the market-place,
And show my wounds to the people. Is _that_ pride?
I stooped to--_her!_--let me not think of that;
'T would poison paradise!--but is _that_ pride?
The Roman pride was stiff and taciturn,
And I,--they tell me, I "will still be talking,"
And no MENENIUS is by to say
In charity of the modern MARCIUS,
"_Consider this:--he has been bred i'the wars_
_Since he could draw a sword, and is ill-school'd_
_In bolted language: meal and bran together_
_He throws without distinction_."
Well, well, well
"_I would he had continued to his country_