Credulity, dismayed imaginably
In retrospect, extenuating warrant
To hang itself conveniently at leisure,—
Only Fernando Nash’s narrative
Will now avail me for the confirmation
Of more, I fear, than the confirmable—
As he would have foretold. Reverting quaintly
And incompatibly with his arrogance
To the weak stings of his inferiors,
And even while dying, he smiled. “Poor souls,” he said,
“That are born damned, although they may be feared
May be forgiven, though hated, and then hanged;
Whereas my early colleagues, had they known
How soon and surely I was to damn myself,
Not only would have ceased their fearing me,
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