Pride is his pity, artifice his praise
A mask his virtue, and his fame a blaze;
Insult his charity, his friendship fear,
And nothing but his vanity, sincere.
“What things we do, he whispered in shame, such shame, what things we men do. Across the great clutch of history there lay in every corner cinders of some chauvinist sacrament. All will be rent to ruin beneath our banners, he thought.”