Pacchiarotto

Front matter

PACCHIAROTTO

AND OTHER POEMS.

PACCHIAROTTO

Prologue

PROLOGUE.

<>1. O the old wall here! How I could pass Life in a long Midsummer day, My feet confined to a plot of grass, My eyes from a wall not once away!

<>2. And lush and lithe, do the creepers clothe Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green: Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, In lappets of tangle they laugh between.

<>3. Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? Why tremble the sprays? What life o'er brims The body,—the house, no eye can probe,— Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs?

<>4. And there again! But my heart may guess Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps: So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess Died out and away in the leafy wraps.

<>5. Wall upon wall are between us: life And song should away from heart to heart. I—prison-bird, with a ruddy strife At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start—

<>6. Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing That's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free; Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring Of the rueful neighbours, and forth to thee!

Of Pacchiarotto, and How He Worked in Distemper

OF PACCHIAROTTO, AND HOW HE WORKED IN DISTEMPER.

<>I. Query: was ever a quainter Crotchet than this of the painter Giacomo Pacchiarotto Who took "Reform" for his motto?

<>2. He, pupil of old Fungaio, Is always confounded (heigho!) With Pacchia, contemporaneous No question, but how extraneous

In the grace of soul, the power Of hand,—undoubted dower Of Pacchia who decked (as we know, My Kirkup!) San Bernardino, Turning the small dark Oratory To Siena's Art-laboratory, As he made its straightness roomy And glorified its gloomy, With Bazzi and Beccafumi. (Another heigho for Bazzi: How people miscall him Razzi!)

<>3. This Painter was of opinion Our earth should be his dominion

Whose Art could correct to pattern What Nature had slurred—the slattern! And since, beneath the heavens, Things lay now at sixes and sevens, Or, as he said, sopra-sotto— Thought the painter Pacchiarotto Things wanted reforming, therefore. "Wanted it"—ay, but wherefore? When earth held one so ready As he to step forth, stand steady In the middle of God's creation And prove to demonstration What the dark is, what the light is, What the wrong is, what the right is, What the ugly, what the beautiful,

What the restive, what the dutiful, In Mankind profuse around him? Man, devil as now he found him, Would presently soar up angel At the summons of such evangel, And owe—what would Man not owe To the painter Pacchiarotto? Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto!

<>4. But Man, he perceived, was stubborn, Grew regular brute, once cub born; And it struck him as expedient— Ere he tried to make obedient, By piping advice in one key,

The wolf, fox, bear and monkey— That his pipe should play a prelude To something heaven-tinged not hell-hued, Something not harsh but docile, Man-liquid, not Man-fossil— Not fact, in short, but fancy. By a laudable necromancy He would conjure up ghosts—a circle Deprived of the means to work ill Should his music prove distasteful, And pearls to the swine go wasteful. To be rent of swine—that was hard! With fancy he ran no hazard: Fact might knock him o'er the mazard.

<>5. So, the painter Pacchiarotto Constructed himself a grotto In the quarter of Stalloreggi— As authors of note allege ye. And on each of the whitewashed sides of it He painted—(none far and wide so fit As he to perform in fresco)— He painted nor cried quiesco Till he peopled its every square foot With Man—from the Beggar barefoot To the Noble in cap and feather: All sorts and conditions together. The Soldier in breastplate and helmet Stood frowningly—hail fellow well met—

By the Priest armed with bell, book and candle. Nor did he omit to handle The Fair Sex, our brave distemperer: Not merely King, Clown, Pope, Emperor— He diversified too his Hades Of all forms, pinched Labour and paid Ease, With as mixed an assemblage of Ladies.

<>6. Which work done, dry,—he rested him, Cleaned pallet, washed brush, divested him Of the apron that suits frescanti, And, bonnet on ear stuck jaunty, This hand upon hip well planted, That, free to wave as it wanted,

He addressed in a choice oration His folk of each name and nation On the duties of every station. The Pope was declared an arrant Impostor at once, I warrant. The Emperor—truth might tax him With ignorance of the maxim "Shear sheep but nowise flay them!" And the Vulgar that obey them, The Ruled, well-matched with the Ruling, They failed not of wholesome schooling On their knavery and their fooling. As for Art—where's decorum? Pooh-poohed it is By Poets that plague us with lewd ditties, And Painters that pester with nudities!

<>7. Now, your rater and debater Is baulked by a mere spectator Who simply stares and listens Tongue-tied, while eye nor glistens Nor brow grows hot and twitchy, Nor mouth, for a combat itchy, Quivers with some convincing Reply—that sets him wincing? Nay, rather—reply that furnishes Your debater with just what burnishes The crest of him, all one triumph, As you see him rise, hear him cry "Humph! Convinced am I? This confutes me?

Receive the rejoinder that suits me! Confutation of vassal for prince meet— Wherein all the powers that convince meet, And mash my opponent to mincemeat!"

<>8. So, off from his head flies the bonnet, His hip loses hand planted on it, While t' other hand, frequent in gesture, Slinks modestly back beneath vesture, As,—hop, skip and jump,—he 's along with Those weak ones he late proved so strong with! Pope, Emperor, lo he 's beside them, Friendly now, who late could not abide them,

King, Clown, Soldier, Priest, Noble, Burgess; And his voice, that out-roared Boanerges, How minikin-mildly it urges In accents how gentled and gingered Its word in defence of the injured! "O call him not culprit, this Pontiff! Be hard on this Kaiser ye won't if Ye take into con-si-der-ation What dangers attend elevation! The Priest—who expects him to descant On duty with more zeal and less cant? He preaches but rubbish he's reared in. The Soldier, grown deaf (by the mere din Of battle) to mercy, learned tippling And what not of vice while a stripling.

The Lawyer—his lies are conventional. And as for the Poor Sort—why mention all Obstructions that leave barred and bolted Access to the brains of each dolt-head?"

<>9. He ended, you wager? Not half! A bet? Precedence to males in the alphabet! Still, disposed of Man's A. B. C., there's X. Y. Z. want assistance,—the Fair Sex! How much may be said in excuse of Those vanities—males see no use of— From silk shoe on heel to laced poll's-hood! What's their frailty beside our own falsehood?

The boldest, most brazen of … trumpets, How kind can they be to their dumb pets! Of their charms—how are most frank, how few venal! While as for those charges of Juvenal— Quæ nemo dixisset in toto Nisi (ædepol) ore illoto— He dismissed every charge with an Apage!

<>10. Then, cocking (in Scotch phrase) his cap a-gee, Right hand disengaged from the doublet —Like landlord, in house he had sublet Resuming of guardianship gestion, To call tenants' conduct in question—

Hop, skip, jump, to inside from outside Of chamber, he lords, ladies, louts eyed With such transformation of visage As fitted the censor of this age. No longer an advocate tepid Of frailty, but champion intrepid Of strength,—not of falsehood but verity,— He, one after one, with asperity Stripped bare all the cant-clothed abuses, Disposed of sophistic excuses, Forced folly each shift to abandon, And left vice with no leg to stand on. So crushing the force he exerted, That Man at his foot lay converted!

<>11. True—Man bred of paint-pot and mortar! But why suppose folks of this sort are More likely to hear and be tractable Than folks all alive and, in fact, able To testify promptly by action Their ardour, and make satisfaction For misdeeds non verbis sed factis? "With folks all alive be my practice Henceforward! O mortar, paint-pot O, Farewell to ye!" cried Pacchiarotto, "Let only occasion intérpose!"

<>12. It did so: for, pat to the purpose Through causes I need not examine,

There fell upon Siena a famine. In vain did the magistrates busily Seek succour, fetch grain out of Sicily, Nay, throw mill and bakehouse wide open— Such misery followed as no pen Of mine shall depict ye. Faint, fainter, Waxed hope of relief: so, our painter, Emboldened by triumph of recency, How could he do other with decency Than rush in this strait to the rescue, Play schoolmaster, point as with fescue To each and all slips in Man's spelling The law of the land?—slips now telling With monstrous effect on the city, Whose magistrates moved him to pity

As, bound to read law to the letter, They minded their hornbook no better.

<>13. I ought to have told you, at starting, How certain, who itched to be carting Abuses away clean and thorough From Siena, both province and borough, Had formed themselves into a company Whose swallow could bolt in a lump any Obstruction of scruple, provoking The nicer throat's coughing and choking: Fit Club, by as fit a name dignified Of "Freed Ones"—"Bardotti"—which signified "Spare-Horses" that walk by the waggon

The team has to drudge for and drag on. This notable Club Pacchiarotto Had joined long since, paid scot and lot to, As free and accepted "Bardotto." The Bailiwick watched with no quiet eye The outrage thus done to society, And noted the advent especially Of Pacchiarotto their fresh ally.

<>14. These Spare-Horses forthwith assembled: Neighed words whereat citizens trembled As oft as the chiefs, in the Square by The Duomo, proposed a way whereby The city were cured of disaster.

"Just substitute servant for master, Make Poverty Wealth and Wealth Poverty, Unloose Man from overt and covert tie, And straight out of social confusion True Order would spring!" Brave illusion— Aims heavenly attained by means earthly!

<>15. Off to these at full speed rushed our worthy,— Brain practised and tongue no less tutored, In argument's armour accoutred,— Sprang forth, mounted rostrum, and essayed Proposals like those to which "Yes" said So glibly each personage painted O' the wall-side wherewith you're acquainted.

He harangued on the faults of the Bailiwick: "Red soon were our State-candle's paly wick, If wealth would become but interfluous; Fill voids up with just the superfluous; If ignorance gave way to knowledge —Not pedantry picked up at college From Doctors, Professors et cætera— (They say: kai to loipa—like better a Long Greek string of kappas, taus, lambdas, Tacked on to the tail of each damned ass)— No knowledge we want of this quality, But knowledge indeed—practicality Through insight's fine universality! If you shout Bailiffs, out on ye all! Fie, Thou Chief of our forces, Amalfi,

Who shieldest the rogue and the clot poll! If you pounce on and poke out, with what pole I leave ye to fancy, our Siena's Beast-litter of sloths and hyenas—" (Whoever to scan this is ill able Forgets the town's name's a dissyllable) "If, this done, ye did—as ye might—place For once the right man in the right place, If you listened to me …"

<>16. At which last "If" There flew at his throat like a mastiff One Spare-Horse—another and another! Such outbreak of tumult and pother,

Horse-faces a-laughing and fleering, Horse-voices a-mocking and jeering, Horse-hands raised to collar the caitiff Whose impudence ventured the late "If"— That, had not fear sent Pacchiarotto Off tramping, as fast as could trot toe, Away from the scene of discomfiture— Had he stood there stock-still in a dumb fit—sure Am I he had paid in his person Till his mother might fail to know her son, Though she gazed on him never so wistful, In the figure so tattered and tristful. Each mouth full of curses, each fist full Of cuffings—behold, Pacchiarotto, The pass which thy project has got to,

Of trusting, nigh ashes still hot—tow! (The paraphrase—which I much need—is From Horace per ignes incedis.')

<>17. Right and left did he dash helter-skelter In agonized search of a shelter. No purlieu so blocked and no alley So blind as allowed him to rally His spirits and see—nothing hampered His steps if he trudged and not scampered Up here and down there in a city That's all ups and downs, more the pity For folks who would outrun the constable. At last he stopped short at the one stable

And sure place of refuge that's offered Humanity. Lately was coffered A corpse in its sepulchre, situate By St. John's Observance. "Habituate Thyself to the strangest of bedfellows, And, kicked by the live, kiss the dead fellows!" So Misery counselled the craven. At once he crept safely to haven Through a hole left unbricked in the structure. Ay, Misery, in have you tucked your Poor client and left him conterminous With—pah!—the thing fetid and verminous! (I gladly would spare you the detail, But History writes what I retail.)

<>18. Two days did he groan in his domicile: "Good Saints, set me free and I promise I'll Adjure all ambition of preaching Change, whether to minds touched by teaching —The smooth folk of fancy, mere figments Created by plaster and pigments,— Or to minds that receive with such rudeness Dissuasion from pride, greed and lewdness, —The rough folk of fact, life's true specimens Of mind—haud in posse sed esse mens As it was, is and shall be for ever Despite of my utmost endeavour. O live foes I thought to illumine, Henceforth lie untroubled your gloom in!

I need my own light, every spark, as I couch with this sole friend—a carcase!"

<>19. Two days thus he maundered and rambled; Then, starved back to sanity, scrambled From out his receptacle loathsome. "A spectre!"—declared upon oath some Who saw him emerge and (appalling To mention) his garments a-crawling With plagues far beyond the Egyptian. He gained, in a state past description A convent of monks, the Observancy.

<>20. Thus far is a fact: I reserve fancy For Fancy's more proper employment: And now she waves wing with enjoyment, To tell ye how preached the Superior When somewhat our painter's exterior Was sweetened. He needed (no mincing The matter) much soaking and rincing, Nay, rubbing with drugs odoriferous, Till, rid of his garments pestiferous And robed by the help of the Brotherhood In odds and ends,—this gown and t'other hood,— His empty inside first well-garnished,— He delivered a tale round, unvarnished.

<>21. "Ah, Youth!" ran the admonishment, "Thine error scarce moves my astonishment. For—why shall I shrink from asserting?— Myself have had hopes of converting The foolish to wisdom, till, sober, My life found its May grow October. I talked and I wrote, but, one morning, Life's Autumn bore fruit in this warning: Let tongue rest, and quiet thy quill be! Earth is earth and not heaven, and ne'er will be.' Man's work is to labour and leaven— As best he may—earth here with heaven; 'Tis work for work's sake that he's needing: Let him work on and on as if speeding

Work's end, but not dream of succeeding! Because if success were intended, Why, heaven would begin ere earth ended. A Spare-Horse? Be rather a thill-horse, Or—what's the plain truth—just a mill-horse! Earth's a mill where we grind and wear mufflers: A whip awaits shirkers and shufflers Who slacken their pace, sick of lugging At what don't advance for their tugging. Though round goes the mill, we must still post On and on as if moving the mill-post. So, grind away, mouth-wise and pen-wise, Do all that we can to make men wise! And if men prefer to be foolish, Ourselves have proved horse-like not mulish:

Sent grist, a good sackful, to hopper, And worked as the Master thought proper. Tongue I wag, pen I ply, who am Abbot; Stick, thou, Son, to daub-brush and dab-pot! But, soft! I scratch hard on the scab hot? Though cured of thy plague, there may linger A pimple I fray with rough finger? So soon could my homily transmute Thy brass into gold? Why, the man's mute!"

<>22. "Ay, Father, I'm mute with admiring How Nature's indulgence untiring Still bids us turn deaf ear to Reason's Best rhetoric—clutch at all seasons

And hold fast to what's proved untenable! Thy maxim is—Man's not amenable To argument: whereof by consequence— Thine arguments reach me: a non-sequence! Yet blush not discouraged, O Father! I stand unconverted, the rather That nowise I need a conversion. No live man (I cap thy assertion) By argument ever could take hold Of me. 'T was the dead thing, the clay-cold, Which grinned Art thou so in a hurry That out of warm light thou must scurry And join me down here in the dungeon Because, above, one's Jack and one—John, One's swift in the race, one—a hobbler,

One's a crowned king and one—a capped cobbler, Rich and poor, sage and fool, virtuous, vicious? Why complain? Art thou so unsuspicious That all's for an hour of essaying Who's fit and who's unfit for playing His part in the after-construction —Heaven's Piece whereof Earth's the Induction? Things rarely go smooth at Rehearsal. Wait patient the change universal, And act, and let act, in existence! For, as thou art clapped hence or hissed hence, Thou host thy promotion or otherwise. And why must wise thou have thy brother wise Because in rehearsal thy cue be To shine by the side of a booby?

No polishing garnet to ruby! All's well that ends well—through Art's magic. Some end, whether comic or tragic, The Artist has purposed, be certain! Explained at the fall of the curtain— In showing thy wisdom at odds with That folly: he tries men and gods with No problem for weak wits to solve meant, But one worth such Author's evolvement. So, back nor disturb play's production By giving thy brother instruction To throw up his fool's-part allotted! Lest haply thyself prove besotted When stript, for thy pains, of that costume Of sage, which has bred the imposthume I prick to relieve thee of,—Vanity!

<>23. "So, Father, behold me in sanity! I'm back to the palette and mahlstick: BiographicalCriticalStudiesp481And as for Man—let each and all stick To what was prescribed them at starting! Once planted as fools—no departing From folly one inch, sæculorum In sæcula! Pass me the jorum, And push me the platter—my stomach Retains, through its fasting, still some ache— And then, with your kind Benedicite, Good-bye!"

<>24. I have told with simplicity My tale, dropped those harsh analytics,

And tried to content you, my critics, Who greeted my early uprising! I knew you through all the disguising, Droll dogs, as I jumped up, cried, "Heyday Bio&critstudiesThomsonp479This Monday is—what else but May-day And these in the drabs, blues, and yellows. Are surely the privileged fellows So, saltbox and bones, tongs and bellows!" (I threw up the window) "Your pleasure?"

<>25. Bio&critstudiesThomsonp439 Then he who directed the measure— An old friend—put leg forward nimbly, "We critics as sweeps out your chimbly! Much soot to remove from your flue, sir!

Who spares coal in kitchen an't you, sir! And neighbours complain it's no joke, sir, —You ought to consume your own smoke, sir!"

<>26. NoteonShelleyp74 Ah, rogues, but my housemaid suspects you— Is confident oft she detects you In bringing more filth into my house Than ever you found there! I'm pious However: 't was God made you dingy And me—with no need to be stingy Of soap, when 't is sixpence the packet. So, dance away, boys, dust my jacket, Bang drum and blow fife—ay, and rattle Your brushes, for that's half the battle!

Don't trample the grass,—hocus-pocus With grime my Spring snowdrop and crocus,— And, what with your rattling and tinkling, Who knows but you give me an inkling How music sounds, thanks to the jangle Of regular drum and triangle? Whereby, tap-tap, chink-chink, 't is proven I break rule as bad as Beethoven. "That chord now—a groan or a grunt is 't? Schumann's self was no worse contrapuntist. No ear! or if ear, so tough-gristled— He thought that he sung while he whistled!"

<>27. So, this time I whistle, not sing at all, My story, the largess I fling at all

And every the rough there whose aubade Did its best to amuse me,—nor so bad! Take my thanks, pick up largess, and scamper Off free, ere your mirth gets a damper! You 've Monday, your one day, your fun-day, While mine is a year that's all Sunday. I've seen you, times—who knows how many?— Dance in here, strike up, play the zany, Make mouths at the Tenant, hoot warning You'll find him decamped next May-morning; Then scuttle away, glad to 'scape hence With—kicks? no, but laughter and ha'pence! Mine's freehold, by grace of the grand Lord Who lets out the ground here,—my landlord: To him I pay quit-rent—devotion;

Nor hence shall I budge, I've a notion, Nay, here shall my whistling and singing Set all his street's echoes a-ringing Long after the last of your number Has ceased my front-court to encumber While, treading down rose and ranunculus, You Tommy-make-room-for-your-Uncle us! Troop, all of you—man or homunculus, Quick march! for Xanthippe, my housemaid, If once on your pates she a souse made With what, pan or pot, bowl or skoramis First comes to her hand—things were more amiss! I would not for worlds be your place in— Recipient of slops from the basin! You, jack-in-the-Green, leaf-and-twiggishness

Won't save a dry thread on your priggishness! While as for Quilp-Hop-o'-my-thumb there, Banjo-Byron that twangs the strum-strum there— He'll think, as the pickle he curses, I've discharged on his pate his own verses! "Dwarfs are saucy," says Dickens: so, sauced in Your own sauce…

<>28. But, back to my Knight of the Pencil, Dismissed to his fresco and stencil! Whose story—begun with a chuckle, And throughout timed by raps of the knuckle,—

To small enough purpose were studied If it ends with crown cracked or nose bloodied. Come, critics,—not shake hands, excuse me! But—say have you grudged to amuse me This once in the forty-and-over Long years since you trampled my clover And scared from my house-eaves each sparrow I never once harmed by that arrow Of song, karterotaton belos, (Which Pindar declares the true melos,) I was forging and filing and finishing, And no whit my labours diminishing Because, though high up in a chamber Where none of your kidney may clamber Your hullabaloo would approach me?

Was it "grammar" wherein you would "coach" me— You,—pacing in even that paddock Of language allotted you ad hoc, With a clog at your fetlocks,—you—scorners Of me free of all its four corners? Was it "clearness of words which convey thought"? Ay, if words never needed enswathe aught But ignorance, impudence, envy And malice—what word-swathe would then vie With yours for a clearness crystalline? But had you to put in one small line Some thought big and bouncing—as noddle Of goose, born to cackle and waddle And bite at man's heel as goose-wont is, Never felt plague its puny os frontis—

You'd know, as you hissed, spat and sputtered, Clear "quack-quack" is easily uttered!

<>29. Lo, I've laughed out my laugh on this mirth-day! Beside, at week's end, dawns my birth-day, That hebdome, hieron emar— (More things in a day than you deem are!) —Tei gar Apollona chrusaora Egeinato Leto. So, gray or ray Betide me, six days hence, I'm vexed here By no sweep, that's certain, till next year! "Vexed?"—roused from what else were insipid ease! Leave snoring a-bed to Pheidippides! We'll up and work! won't we, Euripides?

At the 'Mermaid'

AT THE 'MERMAID.'

The figure that thou here seest … Tut! Was it for gentle Shakespeare put? >> B. Jonson. (Adapted.)

<>I. I—"Next Poet?" No, my hearties, I nor am nor fain would be! Choose your chiefs and pick your parties, Not one soul revolt to me! I, forsooth, sow song-sedition? I, a schism in verse provoke? I, blown up by bard's ambition, Burst—your bubble-king? You joke.

<>2. Come, be grave! The sherris mantling Still about each mouth, mayhap, Breeds you insight—just a scantling— Brings me truth out—just a scrap. Look and tell me! Written, spoken, Here's my life-long work: and where —Where's your warrant or my token I'm the dead king's son and heir?

<>3. Here's my work: does work discover What was rest from work—my life? Did I live man's hater, lover? Leave the world at peace, at strife?

Call earth ugliness or beauty? See things there in large or small? Use to pay its Lord my duty? Use to own a lord at all?

<>4. Blank of such a record, truly, Here's the work I hand, this scroll, Yours to take or leave; as duly, Mine remains the unproffered soul. So much, no whit more, my debtors— How should one like me lay claim To that largess elders, betters Sell you cheap their souls for—fame?

<>5. Which of you did I enable Once to slip inside my breast There to catalogue and label What I like least, what love best, Hope and fear, believe and doubt of, Seek and shun, respect—deride? Who has right to make a rout of Rarities he found inside?

<>6. Rarities or, as he'd rather, Rubbish such as stocks his own: Need and greed (O strange) the Father Fashioned not for him alone!

Whence—the comfort set a-strutting, Whence—the outcry "Haste, behold! Bard's breast open wide, past shutting, Shows what brass we took for gold!"

<>7. Friends, I doubt not he'd display you Brass—myself call oreichalc,— Furnish much amusement; pray you Therefore, be content I baulk Him and you, and bar my portal! Here's my work outside: opine What's inside me mean and mortal! Take your pleasure, leave me mine!

<>8. Which is—not to buy your laurel As last king did, nothing loth. Tale adorned and pointed moral Gained him praise and pity both. Out rushed sighs and groans by dozens, Forth by scores oaths, curses flew: Proving you were cater-cousins, Kith and kindred, king and you!

<>9. Whereas do I ne'er so little (Thanks to sherris) leave ajar Bosom's gate—no jot nor tittle Grow we nearer than we are.

Sinning, sorrowing, despairing, Body-ruined, spirit-wrecked,— Should I give my woes an airing,— Where's one plague that claims respect?

<>10. BiographicalCriticalStudiesp482Have you found your life distasteful? My life did and does smack sweet. Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete. Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I'll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.

<>11. What, like you, he proved—your Pilgrim— This our world a wilderness, Earth still gray and heaven still grim, Not a hand there his might press, Not a heart his own might throb to, Men all rogues and women—say, Dolls which boys' heads duck and bob to, Grown folk drop or throw away?

<>12. My experience being other, How should I contribute verse Worthy of your king and brother? Balaam-like I bless, not curse.

I find earth not grey but rosy, Heaven not grim but fair of hue. Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. Do I stand and stare? All's blue.

<>13. Doubtless I am pushed and shoved by Rogues and fools enough: the more Good luck mine, I love, am loved by Some few honest to the core. Scan the near high, scout the far low! "But the low come close:" what then? Simpletons? My match is Marlowe; Sciolists? My mate is Ben.

<>14. Womankind—"the cat-like nature, False and fickle, vain and weak"— What of this sad nomenclature Suits my tongue, if I must speak? Does the sex invite, repulse so, Tempt, betray, by fits and starts? So becalm but to convulse so, Decking heads and breaking hearts?

<>15. Well may you blaspheme at fortune! I "threw Venus" (Ben, expound!) Never did I need importune Her, of all the Olympian round.

Blessings on my benefactress! Cursings suit—for aught I know— Those who twitched her by the back tress, Tugged and thought to turn her—so!

<>16. Therefore, since no leg to stand on Thus I'm left with,—joy or grief Be the issue,—I abandon Hope or care you name me Chief! Chief and king and Lord's anointed, I?—who never once have wished Death before the day appointed: Lived and liked, not poohed and pished!

<>17. "Ah, but so I shall not enter, Scroll in hand, the common heart— Stopped at surface: since at centre Song should reach Welt-schmerz, world-smart!" "Enter in the heart?" Its shelly Cuirass guard mine, fore and aft! Such song "enters in the belly And is cast out in the draught."

<>18. Back then to our sherris-brewage! "Kingship" quotha? I shall wait— Waive the present time: some new age … But let fools anticipate!

Meanwhile greet me—"friend, good fellow, Gentle Will," my merry men! As for making Envy yellow With "Next Poet"—(Manners, Ben!)

House

HOUSE.

<>1. Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself? Do I live in a house you would like to see? Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf? "Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?"

<>2. Invite the world, as my betters have done? "Take notice: this building remains on view, Its suites of reception every one, Its private apartment and bedroom too;

<>3. "For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." No: thanking the public, I must decline. A peep through my window, if folk prefer; But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine!

<>4. I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced And a house stood gaping, nought to baulk Man's eye wherever he gazed or glanced.

<>5. The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, The inside gaped: exposed to day, Right and wrong and common and queer, Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay.