He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry

Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter,

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry—

Which (though I hate to say a thing that's bitter)

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry,

Through all the "purple and fine linen," fitter

For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot—

And neutralise her outward show of scarlet.