But, friend, I don’t acknowledge quite so fast
I fail of all your manhood’s lofty tastes
Enumerated so complacently,
On the mere ground that you forsooth can find
In this particular life I choose to lead
No fit provision for them.  Can you not? 
Say you, my fault is I address myself
To grosser estimators than should judge? 
And that’s no way of holding up the soul, 370
Which, nobler, needs men’s praise perhaps, yet knows
One wise man’s verdict outweighs all the fools’—­
Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that. 
I pine among my million imbeciles
(You think) aware some dozen men of sense
Eye me and know me, whether I believe
In the last winking Virgin, as I vow,
And am a fool, or disbelieve in her
And am a knave—­approve in neither case,
Withhold their voices though I look their way:  380
Like Verdi when, at his worst opera’s end
(The thing they gave at Florence—­what’s its name?)
While the mad houseful’s plaudits near outbang
His orchestra of salt-box, tongs and bones,
He looks through all the roaring and the wreaths
Where sits Rossini patient in his stall.

Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here—­
That even your prime men who appraise their kind
Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel,
See more in a truth than the truth’s simple self, 390
Confuse themselves.  You see lads walk the street
Sixty the minute; what’s to note in that? 
You see one lad o’erstride a chimney-stack;
Him you must watch—­he’s sure to fall, yet stands! 
Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things. 
The honest thief, the tender murderer,
The superstitious atheist, demirep
That loves and saves her soul in new French books—­
We watch while these in equilibrium keep
The giddy line midway:  one step aside, 400
They’re classed and done with.  I, then, keep the line
Before your sages—­just the men to shrink
From the gross weights, coarse scales and labels broad
You offer their refinement.  Fool or knave? 
Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave
When there’s a thousand diamond weights between? 
So, I enlist them.  Your picked twelve, you’ll find,
Profess themselves indignant, scandalized
At thus being held unable to explain
How a superior man who disbelieves 410
May not believe as well:  that’s Schelling’s way! 
It’s through my coming in the tail of time,
Nicking the minute with a happy tact. 
Had I been born three hundred years ago
They’d say, “What’s strange?  Blougram of course believes;”
And, seventy years since, “disbelieves of course.” 
But now, “He may believe; and yet, and yet
How can he?” All eyes turn with interest. 
Whereas, step off the line on either side—­
You, for example, clever to a fault, 420
The rough and ready man who write apace,