Fourth Book

He cannot stand in with two stable feet.Remember then!—for Art's sake, hold your life.'

We parted so. I held him in respect.I comprehended what he was in heartAnd sacrificial greatness.Ay, but heSupposed me a thing too small to deign to know:He blew me, plainly, from the crucible,As some intruding, interrupting flyNot worth the pains of his analysisAbsorbed on nobler subjects.Hurt a fly!He would not for the world: he's pitifulTo flies even.'Sing,' says he, 'and teaze me still,If that's your way, poor insect.'That's your way!