Canto CIX
The churl in spirit up or down,Along the scale of ranks, thro’ allTo who may grasp a golden ballBy blood a king, at heart a clown;
The churl in spirit, howe’er he veilHis want in forms for fashion’s sake,Will let his coltish nature breakAt seasons thro’ the gilded pale:
For who can always act? but he,To whom a thousand memories call,Not being less but more than allThe gentleness he seem’d to be,
So wore his outward best, and join’dEach office of the social hour,To noble manners, as the flowerAnd native growth of noble mind;
Nor ever narrowness or spite,Or villain fancy fleeting by,Drew in the expression of an eye,Where God and Nature met in light,
And thus he bore without abuseThe grand old name of gentleman,Defamed by every charlatan,And soil’d with all ignoble use.