He first sank to the bottom—like his works,

But soon rose to the surface—like himself;

For all corrupted things are buoyed like corks,[565]

By their own rottenness, light as an elf,

Or wisp that flits o'er a morass: he lurks,

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf,

In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision,"[ht]

As Welborn says—"the Devil turned precisian."[566]