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48 Come away, Viscount!

Hear his arrogance! A country lout who… who… has got no gloves! Who goes out without sleeve-knots, ribbons, lace!

True; all my elegances are within. I do not prank myself out, puppy-like; My toilet is more thorough, if less gay; I would not sally forth,—a half-washed-out Affront upon my cheek,—a conscience Yellow-eyed, bilious, from its sodden sleep, A ruffled honour,… scruples grimed and dull! I show no bravery of shining gems. Truth, Independence, are my fluttering plumes. 'Tis not my form I lace to make me slim, But brace my soul with efforts as with stays, Covered with exploits, not with ribbon-knots, My spirit bristling high like your moustaches, I, traversing the crowds and chattering groups Make Truth ring bravely out like clash of spurs!

But, Sir…

I wear no gloves? and what of that? I had one,… remnant of an old worn pair, And, knowing not what else to do with it,

I threw it in the face of… some young fool.