He cannot stand in with two stable feet.
Remember then!—for Art's sake, hold your life.'

We parted so. I held him in respect.
I comprehended what he was in heart
And sacrificial greatness.⁠Ay, but he
Supposed me a thing too small to deign to know:
He blew me, plainly, from the crucible,
As some intruding, interrupting fly
Not worth the pains of his analysis
Absorbed on nobler subjects.⁠Hurt a fly!
He would not for the world: he's pitiful
To flies even.⁠'Sing,' says he, 'and teaze me still,
If that's your way, poor insect.'⁠That's your way!