The churl in spirit up or down,
⁠Along the scale of ranks, thro' all
To who may grasp a golden ball
⁠By blood a king, at heart a clown;

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil
⁠His want in forms for fashion's sake,
Will let his coltish nature break
⁠At seasons thro' the gilded pale:

For who can always act? but he,
⁠To whom a thousand memories call,
Not being less but more than all
⁠The gentleness he seem'd to be,

So wore his outward best, and join'd
⁠Each office of the social hour,
To noble manners, as the flower
⁠And native growth of noble mind;