840
Then, friend, you seem as much a slave as I,
A liar, conscious coward and hypocrite,
Without the good the slave expects to get,
In case he has a master after all! 
You own your instincts? why, what else do I,
Who want, am made for, and must have a God
Ere I can be aught, do aught?—­no mere name
Want, but the true thing with what proves its truth,
To wit, a relation from that thing to me,
Touching from head to foot—­which touch I feel, 850
And with it take the rest, this life of ours! 
I live my life here; yours you dare not live,

—­Not as I state it, who (you please subjoin)
Disfigure such a life and call it names. 
While, to your mind, remains another way
For simple men:  knowledge and power have rights,
But ignorance and weakness have rights too. 
There needs no crucial effort to find truth
If here or there or anywhere about: 
We ought to turn each side, try hard and see, 860
And if we can’t, be glad we’ve earned at least
The right, by one laborious proof the more,
To graze in peace earth’s pleasant pasturage. 
Men are not angels, neither are they brutes: 
Something we may see, all we cannot see. 
What need of lying?  I say, I see all,
And swear to each detail the most minute
In what I think a Pan’s face—­you, mere cloud: 
I swear I hear him speak and see him wink,
For fear, if once I drop the emphasis, 870
Mankind may doubt there’s any cloud at all. 
You take the simple life—­ready to see,
Willing to see (for no cloud ’s worth a face)—­
And leaving quiet what no strength can move,
And which, who bids you move? who has the right? 
I bid you; but you are God’s sheep, not mine;
"Pastor est tui Dominus." You find
In this the pleasant pasture of our life
Much you may eat without the least offence,
Much you don’t eat because your maw objects, 880
Much you would eat but that your fellow-flock
Open great eyes at you and even butt,
And thereupon you like your mates so well
You cannot please yourself, offending them;
Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep,
You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats
And strike the balance.  Sometimes certain fears
Restrain you, real checks since you find them so;
Sometimes you please yourself and nothing checks: 
And thus you graze through life with not one lie, 890
And like it best.

But do you, in truth’s name? 
If so, you beat—­which means you are not I—­
Who needs must make earth mine and feed my fill
Not simply unbutted at, unbickered with,
But motioned to the velvet of the sward
By those obsequious wethers’ very selves. 
Look at me. sir; my age is double yours: 
At yours, I knew beforehand, so enjoyed,
What now I should be—­as, permit the word,
I pretty well imagine your whole range