And paint no peccadillo as a crime— Since when illegally light midges mate, Or flies purloin, or gnats assassinate, No sane man hales them to the magistrate. Or so he says. He merely strove to find And fix a faithful likeness of mankind About its daily business,—to secure No full-length portrait, but a miniature,— And for it all no moral can procure. Let Bulmer, then, defend his old-world crew, And beg indulgence—nay, applause—of you. Grant that we tippled and were indiscreet, And that our idols all had earthen feet; Grant that we made of life a masquerade; And swore a deal more loudly than we prayed; Grant none of us the man his Maker meant,— Our deeds, the parodies of our intent, In neither good nor ill pre-eminent; Grant none of us a Nero,—none a martyr,— All merely so-so. And de te narratur.
