Ii

In such a place Who could expose thy face, Historiographer of deathless Crusoe! That paint'st the strife And all the naked ills of savage life, Far above Rousseau? Rather myself had stood In that ignoble wood, Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day. If nought else could atone For waggish libel, I swear on bible, I would have spared him for thy sake alone, Man Friday!