their own trim 285 Are wont to do to please their whim, Drinking, lying, swearing, play. 6. Such were his fellow-servants; thus His virtue, like our own, was built Too much on that indignant fuss 290 Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us To bully one another's guilt. 7. He had a mind which was somehow At once circumference and centre Of all he might or feel or know; 295 Nothing went ever out, although Something did ever enter. 8. He had as much imagination As a pint-pot;—he never could Fancy another situation, 300 From which to dart his contemplation, Than that wherein he stood. 9. Yet his was individual mind, And new created all he saw In a new manner, and refined 305 Those new creations, and combined Them, by a master-spirit's law. 10. Thus—though unimaginative—  An apprehension clear, intense, Of his mind's work, had made alive 310 The things it wrought on; I believe Wakening a sort of thought in sense. 11. But from the first 'twas Peter's drift To be a kind of moral eunuch, He touched the hem of Nature's shift, 315 Felt faint—and never dared uplift The closest, all-concealing tunic. 12. She laughed the while, with an arch smile, And kissed him with a sister's kiss, And said—My best Diogenes, 320 I love you well—but, if you please, Tempt not again my deepest bliss. 13.  ''Tis you are cold—for I, not coy, Yield love for love, frank, warm, and true; And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy—                             325 His errors prove it—knew my joy More, learned friend, than you. 14.  'Boeca bacciata non perde ventura, Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna:—  So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure a 330 Male prude, like you, from what you now endure, a Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna. 15. Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe.  And smoothed his spacious forehead down With his broad palm;—'twixt love and fear, 335 He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer, And in his dream sate down. 16. The Devil was no uncommon creature; A leaden-witted thief—just huddled Out of the dross and scum of nature; 340 A toad-like lump of limb and feature, With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled. 17. He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, The spirit of evil well may be:  A drone too base to have a sting; 345 Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing, And calls lust, luxury. 18. Now he was quite the kind of wight Round whom collect, at a fixed aera,  

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