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Shakespeare was not meant for taverns, nor for tavern louts.

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Sonnet Cycle to M C after W S Sonnets CXXXI - CXXXIX

Sonnet Cycle to M C after William Shakespeare Sonnets CXXXI - CLIV

[c] Jonathan Robin

CARE IS OUR DREAM

Sonnet Cycle after William Shakespeare: Part II
Sonnets CXXXI - CLIV

Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXI

Thou art so tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false, I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgement's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

Sonnet CXXXI
Swift in succession fleet speed thoughts when I
Allow time to rhyme contemplating smile.
Nefertiti resignèdly would cry
Grieving 'Quits' obliged to reconcile
To defeat, a feat none else dare try.
Outer skin and inner heart worthwhile
Most naturally ally I testify,
Adopt love’s truth to heart, scorn art and style.
Millions shudder – to your rank unworthy -
Aware all their priorities weigh zilch,
Understatements glib by small minds scurvy,
Deprived of value still your fame they’d filch.
Enshadowed, dark, stark dead their teeming dreams
Compelled to spell fell shutters, failing themes.

Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXII

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and ivory mourner she,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,

[...] Read more

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Taverns

Amongst buoyant chortles
And charlatan tales
From sinewy gutters
Of jocund corruptions
The wafting jigger
And latticing clambers
Of fervent tongues brought
Nostalgia dissipated
From the clogged pores
Of the shriveling skin,
And melancholia was
As evasive as the wind
With the yearning dithering
In the echopractic reveling
Frosted eyes mounted the seams
Of barricading sierras
And you wouldn't hear
The riddance of the opened doors

In these taverns
You may rest your head
And haunt with
The phantom of the blunt
Susurrations of the floor
Clad with anguished blood
Purging the mausoleum gore
Residing in the bones

In these taverns
You may play the puppet
Stringed to your own
And play the criminal
In a sordid carnival
Botching to pilfer
The hooked gambler's
Clandestine pockets
Or somebody else's
Putrefaction
And be hailed
A hero

In these taverns
You will go astray
With the roars of
Singeing throats
And in the predicament
Impaled with grills
You shall be found
Moseying
With charred feet

[...] Read more

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Sonnet LX - Variations In Imitation - after William Shakespeare

See below W S Sonnet LX for English and French variations

Sonnet LX

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow
Feeds on the rareities of Nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth despite his cruel hand.

William SHAKESPEARE shak1_0008_shak1_0000 PST_DZX
________________________


So nnet LX Imitation - Par Vagues

Par vagues, s’approchant à la rive pierreuse,
Nos instants précieux écument leur destin,
Chacun son précédent remplaçant en chemin,
Le tout se bousculant - avancée périlleuse.
Le Temps notre jeunesse avale et l’âme heureuse,
Avance, et, mûrissant, se voit sacrée: sa main
Dispute nos chansons, gloires d’antan, - déclin
Que le faucheur étale, éclipse malheureuse.
Le Temps reprend ses dons, de profonds sillons creuse,
Des affronts forts profonds au front jadis si saint,
En dévorant les traces de notre grâce éteinte,
Aucun ne faisant face à sa fauche rieuse!
Pourtant malgré le Temps, sa main sans pitié,
Ces lignes attendent un jour coulant de vérité.

15 December 1991 revised 2005 robi3_0508_shak1_0008 PFT_DZX see robi3_0654
Translation William SHAKESPEARE – Sonnet LX for previous version see below

__________________

Sonnet LX

Ainsi qu’aux vagues visant la rive pierreuse,
Nos instants précieux se hâtent vers leur destin,
Chacun son précedent remplaçant en chemin,

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Shakespeare Daughter's Hungry Street

Jules travelled down smoking art surreal street
to explore bohemian style flavoured beat.
Where all the noble artist souls are found
carrying her doves heart, she was stage bound.
Down to Shakespeare daughter's hungry street.

Jazz sax soared art savouring lovers danced.
Midget naked dancing twin brothers pranced.
Fire eater sister showed her fiery flash style.
Marching the military two step erotic mile.
Down upon Shakespeare daughter's hungry street.

Some priest held paintings of narrow grief.
Some lovers carried crosses of their belief.
Some miracle workers photographed their smile.
Some frozen suit prophets flaunted their style.
Down upon Shakespeare daughter's hungry street.

The red body wine skull shape face glowed.
Humanities blood of experience muse flowed.
Sax and ghost trumpeter explore reality theme.
Every jazz hip poet was singing up wild scene.
Down upon Shakespeare daughter's hungry street.

Some choir angels sung 'let humanity be heard'.
Redemptions poems quote reality to disturb.
Let the high barbed pitched tongues glow.
Artist dreams and mad sanity will overflow.
Down upon Shakespeare daughter's hungry street.

The immaculate dripping sky turned bright red.
Some saint laughed loud, cool your aching head.
Poets, junkies, taxman, lovers played high dice.
Each and every sister painted their own paradise.
Down upon Shakespeare daughter's hungry street.

Drinking her own redemption flavour wine divine.
Slept childlike and woke mysteriously to fine.
The seven stone evangelist had shifted outa town.
The sculptured Valentino had fallen nose down.
Down upon Shakespeare daughter's hungry street.

Jules travelled down smoking art valley street.
To savour bohemian flavour feel burning heat,
but finally her natural innocence was blown.
All the poets ritual seers faces had flown.
Down to Shakespeare daughter's hungry street.

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Villion's Ballade Of Good Counsel, To His Friends Of Evil Life

Nay, be you pardoner or cheat,
Or cogger keen, or mumper shy,
You'll burn your fingers at the feat,
And howl like other folks that fry.
All evil folks that love a lie!
And where goes gain that greed amasses,
By wile, and trick, and thievery?
'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet,
With game, and shame, and jollity,
Go jigging through the field and street,
With MYST'RY and MORALITY;
Win gold at GLEEK,--and that will fly,
Where all you gain at PASSAGE passes, -
And that's? You know as well as I,
'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Nay, forth from all such filth retreat,
Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry,
Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat,
If you've no clerkly skill to ply;
You'll gain enough, with husbandry,
But--sow hempseed and such wild grasses,
And where goes all you take thereby? -
'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

ENVOY.

Your clothes, your hose, your broidery,
Your linen that the snow surpasses,
Or ere they're worn, off, off they fly,
'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

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Rabiteen

He said that he would stay forever
forever wasn't very long
He said that he would take the high road
He thought that I was always wrong

Cause when he lied it meant he loved me
And when he lied it meant he cared
And when he lied it meant he loved me
Cause when he lied it meant that he was there

He said that he would go his own way
wrapped up my leg and down my spine
He said that he would be the fairest
Drenched in blood and turpentine

Cause when he lied it meant he loved me
And when he lied it meant he cared
And when he lied it meant he loved me
Cause when he lied it meant that he was there

I am never going back I don't care what he said
I wish he could see the hate in my head
I am never going back I don't care what he said
I wish he could see the hate in my head
I am never going back I don't care what he said
I wish he could see the hate in my head
I am never going back I don't care what he said
I wish he could see the hate

He said that he would tell no secrets
He said that he would never lie
He said that he would spring eternal
He said that we would never die

Cause when he lied it meant he loved me
And when he lied it meant he cared
And when he lied it meant he loved me
Cause when he cried it meant he cared

Cause when he lied it meant he loved me
And when he lied it meant he cared
And when he lied it meant he loved me
Cause when he lied it meant that
he was
he was
he was
He was there

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The Proposition

You cant have the flower without the root
You cant have the fire without the soot
Even a stripper needs her red tasseled suit
And we were meant to be
In every war the north needs the south
And everyone knows all assholes have a mouth
Without mystery what would writers talk about
And we were meant to be
An apple needs pits the way melons need seed
Your foot needs your arm and your arm needs your knee
And one of these days I know you will need me
We were meant to be, ooohhh, we were meant to be
Youre mothers an ogre your fathers a scamp
You wont see my parents honored on any stamp
But just like a bulb screws into a lamp
We were meant to be
The way the aids needs a vaccine, somewhere a vaccine needs
Aids, the way a victim needs life, a life needs to be saved
And out of all of this will come a better way
We were meant to be
So you can go to europe, los angeles or mars
You can stand on a building throwing cinder blocks on cars
You can practice deep voodoo, but like me youll see
We were meant to be, we were meant to be
We were meant to be
We were meant to be
We were meant to be
We were meant to be
We were meant to be
We were meant to be
We were meant to be
We were meant to be

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Bishop Blougram's Apology

No more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk.
A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith!
We ought to have our Abbey back, you see.
It's different, preaching in basilicas,
And doing duty in some masterpiece
Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart!
I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes,
Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere;
It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh?
These hot long ceremonies of our church
Cost us a little—oh, they pay the price,
You take me—amply pay it! Now, we'll talk.

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs.
No deprecation—nay, I beg you, sir!
Beside 't is our engagement: don't you know,
I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out,
We'd see truth dawn together?—truth that peeps
Over the glasses' edge when dinner's done,
And body gets its sop and holds its noise
And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time:
Truth's break of day! You do despise me then.
And if I say, "despise me"—never fear!
1 know you do not in a certain sense—
Not in my arm-chair, for example: here,
I well imagine you respect my place
(Status, entourage, worldly circumstance)
Quite to its value—very much indeed:
—Are up to the protesting eyes of you
In pride at being seated here for once—
You'll turn it to such capital account!
When somebody, through years and years to come,
Hints of the bishop—names me—that's enough:
"Blougram? I knew him"—(into it you slide)
"Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day,
All alone, we two; he's a clever man:
And after dinner—why, the wine you know—
Oh, there was wine, and good!—what with the wine . . .
'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk!
He's no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen
Something of mine he relished, some review:
He's quite above their humbug in his heart,
Half-said as much, indeed—the thing's his trade.
I warrant, Blougram's sceptical at times:
How otherwise? I liked him, I confess!"
Che che, my dear sir, as we say at Rome,
Don't you protest now! It's fair give and take;
You have had your turn and spoken your home-truths:
The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit.

[...] Read more

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They've Chosen To Be Winners

Picking up those pieces from a running done.
Now taking time when before they gave none.
Less they find offensive too.
With fresh sentiments meant,
They've improved.

Sticking to a purpose with a focused aimed
With minds more open.
And those attitudes changed.

A new day dawning has to them been sent.
To send defensive motives flushed,
With their fluxing minds now rinsed.

And...
They've chosen to be winners!
With those sentiments meant.
Winners.
With those sentiments meant.
Winners.
With those sentiments meant.
To leave behind their indifference.

They have chosen to be winners.
With those sentiments meant.
Winners.
With those sentiments meant.
They're winners.
With those sentiments meant.
To leave behind their indifference.

Picking up those pieces from a running done.
Now taking time when before they gave none.
Less they find offensive too.
With fresh sentiments meant they've improved.

And...
They've chosen to be winners!
With those sentiments meant.
Winners.
With those sentiments meant.
They're winners.
With those sentiments meant.
To leave behind their indifference.

They are winners.
With those sentiments meant.
Winners.
With those sentiments meant.
They're winners.

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Brothers O' Mine

Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine,
All the world over, from pole to pole
All of them brothers of mine and thine
Every wondering, blundering soul.
Banded together by grace divine,
Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine.

Good Brother Green at the service sat
Sat in the chapel and bowed his head;
Praying most fervently into his hat;
Bending his knee when The Word was read.
For good Brother Green was a godly man
A godly keristian; and what be more,
He loved all sinners, and carefully ran
A worldy and prosperous grocery store.

'Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine,'
Quoted the preacher, with dolorous drone:
'The Lord He hath given thee all that is thine.
Love ye not gold for itself alone.
E'er to the fallen thy mercy incline,
Love thou thy neighbour! O, brothers o' mine.'

Good comrade Hal in the tavern sat
Sat in the tavern and tossed his head,
Tilting a glass to the brim of his hat;
Bending his arm when the toast was said.
But comrade Hal was a godless man
A godless sinner; and what be more,
He loved good liquor, and carelessly ran
A long, long bill at the grocery store.

'Brother o' mine, brother o' mine,'
Shouted the tippler in riotous tone,
'Toiled thou, and sweated for all that is thine;
But love not gold for itself alone.
Gold bringeth gladness and red, red wine.
Fill up another! O, brother o' mine.'

Every Sabbath, since childhood years,
Good Brother Green at the service sat
A traveller stern in this vale of tears
Breathing his piety into his hat;
Praying for guidance and praying for light;
Vowing unworthiness more and more;
With a nice warm feeling that all was right
With the business of Green's Cash Grocery Store.

'Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine,'
Turn not away from thy brother in sin.

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Omar Khayyam

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Translated into English in 1859 by Edward FitzGerald

I.
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

II.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

III.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted -- "Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

IV.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

V.
Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one Knows;
But still the Vine her ancient ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.

VI.
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!" -- the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.

VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly -- and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life kep falling one by one.

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Survivors

...i never meant to break your heart, please forgive me.
No I never meant to hold you back
I never meant to turn away
Please forgive me
I never meant to break your heart
Id give my last breath before I do
Please forgive me
No I never meant to hold you down
I never meant to break your heart
Somehow, somehow
We are survivors
No I never meant to hold you back
I never meant to turn away
Here we are standing here
Survivors in the night
No I never meant to break your heart
Ill always be here for you
Heres my word, take my hand
Survivors in the night
No I never meant to let you down
Id give my last breath before I do
All I ever wanted was to be right here
Survivors in the night
When all is said and done
Well find a way
To put all this behind us
Well find some way
cos you know that I wont be leaving
Yes Im here and I wont be leaving
No I never meant to cause you pain
No I never meant to hurt you
All I want to do now, is to try my best
Survivors in the night
When all is said and done
Well find someday
We can forget all this
Somehow, some way
And as long as Im here
Therell be no worries any more
And all these promises Im making now
Ill hold each day
So dont ever. dont ever, dont forget
That I never, never meant to break your heart
All I ever wanted was to stand beside you
Survivors in the night
We are survivors in the night

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Dante, Shakespeare, Milton - From

Doctor. Ah! thou, too,
Sad Alighieri, like a waning moon
Setting in storm behind a grove of bays!
Balder. Yes, the great Florentine, who wove his web
And thrust it into hell, and drew it forth
Immortal, having burn’d all that could burn,
And leaving only what shall still be found
Untouch’d, nor with the small of fire upon it,
Under the final ashes of this world.
Doctor. Shakespeare and Milton!
Balder. Switzerland and home.
I ne’er see Milton, but I see the Alps,
As once, sole standing on a peak supreme,
To the extremest verge summit and gulf
I saw, height after depth, Alp beyond Alp,
O’er which the rising and the sinking soul
Sails into distance, heaving as a ship
O’er a great sea that sets to strands unseen.
And as the mounting and descending bark,
Borne on exulting by the under deep,
Gains of the wild wave something not the wave,
Catches a joy of going, and a will
Resistless, and upon the last lee foam
Leaps into air beyond it, so the soul
upon the Alpine ocean mountain-toss’d,
Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged
To darkness, and still wet with drops of death
Held into light eternal, and again
Cast down, to be again uplift in vast
And infinite succession, cannot stay
The mad momentum, but in frenzied sight
Of horizontal clouds and mists and skies
And the untried Inane, springs on the surge
Of things, and passing matter by a force
Material, thro’ vacuity careers,
Rising and falling.
Doctor. And my Shakespeare! Call
Milton your Alps, and which is he among
The tops of Andes? Keep your Paradise,
And Eves, and Adams, but give me the Earth
That Shakespeare drew, and make it grave and gay
With Shakespeare’s men and women; let me laugh
Or weep with them, and you—a wager,—aye,
A wager by my faith—either his muse
Was the recording angel, or that hand
Cherubic, which fills up the Book of Life,
Caught what the last relaxing gripe let fall
By a death-bed at Stratford, and hence-forth
Holds Shakespeare’s pen. Now strain your sinews, poet,
And top your Pelion,—Milton Switzerland,

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An Unfortunate Likeness

I'VE painted SHAKESPEARE all my life -
"An infant" (even then at "play"!)
"A boy," with stage-ambition rife,
Then "Married to ANN HATHAWAY."

"The bard's first ticket night" (or "ben."),
His "First appearance on the stage,"
His "Call before the curtain" - then
"Rejoicings when he came of age."

The bard play-writing in his room,
The bard a humble lawyer's clerk.
The bard a lawyer (3) - parson (4) - groom (5) -
The bard deer-stealing, after dark.

The bard a tradesman (6) - and a Jew (7) -
The bard a botanist (8) - a beak (9) -
The bard a skilled musician (10) too -
A sheriff (11) and a surgeon (12) eke!

Yet critics say (a friendly stock)
That, though it's evident I try,
Yet even I can barely mock
The glimmer of his wondrous eye!

One morning as a work I framed,
There passed a person, walking hard:
"My gracious goodness," I exclaimed,
"How very like my dear old bard!

"Oh, what a model he would make!"
I rushed outside - impulsive me! -
"Forgive the liberty I take,
But you're so very" - "Stop!" said he.

"You needn't waste your breath or time, -
I know what you are going to say, -
That you're an artist, and that I'm
Remarkably like SHAKESPEARE. Eh?

"You wish that I would sit to you?"
I clasped him madly round the waist,
And breathlessly replied, "I do!"
"All right," said he, "but please make haste."

I led him by his hallowed sleeve,
And worked away at him apace,
I painted him till dewy eve, -
There never was a nobler face!

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Portrait Of An Old Woman On The College Tavern Wall

Oh down at the tavern
the children are singing
around their round table
and around me still.
Did you hear what it said?

I only said
how there is a pewter urn
pinned to the tavern wall,
as old as old is able
to be and be there still.
I said, the poets are tere
I hear them singing and lying
around their round table
and around me still.
Across the room is a wreath
made of a corpse's hair,
framed in glass on the wall,
as old as old is able
to be and be remembered still.
Did you hear what it said?

I only said
how I want to be there and I
would sing my songs with the liars
and my lies with all the singers.
And I would, and I would but
it's my hair in the hair wreath,
my cup pinned to the tavern wall,
my dusty face they sing beneath.
Poets are sitting in my kitchen.
Why do these poets lie?
Why do children get children and
Did you hear what it said?

I only said
how I want to be there,
Oh, down at the tavern
where the prophets are singing
around their round table
until they are still.

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Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

I
AWAKE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

II
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

IV

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

V

Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamsh{'y}d's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.

VI

And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to' incarnadine.

VII

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII

And look--a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke--and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:

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L'Escargot D'Or

O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
Ten sous have I, so I'll regale;
Ten sous your amber brew to sip
(Eight for the bock and two the tip),
And so I'll sit the evening long,
And smoke my pipe and watch the throng,
The giddy crowd that drains and drinks,
I'll watch it quiet as a sphinx;
And who among them all shall buy
For ten poor sous such joy as I?
As I who, snugly tucked away,
Look on it all as on a play,
A frolic scene of love and fun,
To please an audience of One.

O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
You've stuff indeed for many a tale.
All eyes, all ears, I nothing miss:
Two lovers lean to clasp and kiss;
The merry students sing and shout,
The nimble garcons dart about;
Lo! here come Mimi and Musette
With: "S'il vous plait, une cigarette?"
Marcel and Rudolf, Shaunard too,
Behold the old rapscallion crew,
With flowing tie and shaggy head . . .
Who says Bohemia is dead?
Oh shades of Murger! prank and clown,
And I will watch and write it down.

O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
What crackling throats have gulped your ale!
What sons of Fame from far and near
Have glowed and mellowed in your cheer!
Within this corner where I sit
Banville and Coppée clashed their wit;
And hither too, to dream and drain,
And drown despair, came poor Verlaine.
Here Wilde would talk and Synge would muse,
Maybe like me with just ten sous.
Ah! one is lucky, is one not?
With ghosts so rare to drain a pot!
So may your custom never fail,
O Tavern of the Golden Snail!

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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

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Intentional

No matter what may be done or said,
When that action in time takes place...
Someone will feel left out instead.
Not because of the action,
Done or said.
But how it was related when instigated.

Whoever made it fun for one,
To berate another with a blurting tongue...
The day will come,
When a similar deed is repeated.
With a singing of a song sung,
Or a tune heard hummed.

With no exit to ignore it to escape or leave,
The perpetrator remembered...
Will then be seeking empathy.
That no one with heart and soul intact,
Will care to release to relieve.
To set one free from memories.

This Earth is not flat,
It looks as if round.
And rotates on an axis,
To return to a place of origin always found.
And that is a fact when one sits to think,
Of those thoughts trapped to sit cemented...
In intentional inequities inflicted to sting and meant!

Inflicted to sting and meant!
What goes around...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Comes around...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
What goes around...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Comes around...
Inflicted to sting and meant!

It is all quite intentional.

'Never accuse me again,
Of not having substance! '

Inflicted to sting and meant!
'Never...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Accuse...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Me...

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IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus

Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—

Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse

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