To seek chords on love's keys to strike, other than his chords?

There's an error joy winks at and grief half condones,

Or life's counterpoint grates the C major of discords—

'Tis man's choice 'twixt sluts rose-crowned and queens age dethrones.

VIII

I for instance might groan as a bag-pipe groans,

Give the flesh of my heart for sharp sorrows to flagellate,

Grief might grind my cheeks down, age make sticks of my bones,

(Though a queen drowned in tears must be worth more than Madge elate)[1]

Rose might turn burdock, and pine-apples cones;

[Pg 395]

IX

My skin might change to a pitiful crone's,

My lips to a lizard's, my hair to weed,

My features, in fact, to a series of loans;

Thus much is conceded; now, you, concede

You would hardly salute me by choice, John Jones?

[1] First edition:— And my face bear his brand—mine, that once bore Love's badge elate!

[1]

[Pg 396]

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