The Fire i' the Flint

The sudden thrust of speech is no mean test Of man or woman. Caesar, with his cry Of anguish,—Pilate, putting justice by,— Into three words a human soul compressed; Three broke from Galileo’s brooding breast; And Desdemona, instant to reply “Nobody—I myself,” is by that lie In all her purity made manifest. But Tito, Tito, standing so secure,— Tito, the idol of the market-place, Who muttering to himself, “Some madman, sure!” Could look his stricken father in the face, From a yet deeper well his falsehood drew, And lived more base than that young wife died true.