The shepherd's brow fronting forked lightning, owns

The shepherd's brow fronting forked lightning, ownsThe horror and the havoc and the gloryOf it. Angels fall, they are towers, from heaven—a storyOf just, majestical, and giant groans.But man—we, scaffold of score brittle bones;Who breathe, from groundlong babyhood to hoaryAge gasp; whose breath is our memento mori—What bass is our viol for tragic tones?He! Hand to mouth he lives, and voids with shame;And, blazoned in however bold the name,Man Jack the man is, just; his mate a hussy.And I that die these deaths, that feed this flame,That ... in smooth spoons spy life's masque mirrored: tameMy tempests there, my fire and fever fussy.