gives For love of one whose love she dreams is hers, But wakes to find herself a toy of blood, And dupe of prodigal breath, abandoned quite For other conquests. For I gave myself, And shrink for thought thereof, and for the loss Of myself never to myself restored. The urtication of this shame made plays And sonnets, as you'll find behind all deeds That mount to greatness, anger, hate, disgust, But, better, love. To hell with punks and wenches, Drabs, mopsies, doxies, minxes, trulls and queans, Rips, harridans and strumpets, pieces, jades. And likewise to the eternal bonfire lechers, All rakehells, satyrs, goats and placket fumblers, Gibs, breakers-in-at-catch-doors, thunder tubes. I think I have a fever—hell and furies! Or else this ale grows hotter i' the mouth. Ben, if I die before you, let me waste Richly and freely in the good brown earth, Untrumpeted and by no bust marked out. What good, Ben Jonson, if the world could see What face was mine, who wrote these plays and sonnets? Life, you have hurt me. Since Death has a veil I take the veil and hide, and like great Cæsar Who drew his toga round him, I depart. Good friends, let's to the fields—I have a fever. After a little walk, and by your pardon, I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing, Nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, I pass you like an orange to a child: I can no more with you. Do what you will. What should my care be when I have no power To save, guide, mould you? Naughty world you need me As little as I need you: go your way! Tyrants shall rise and slaughter fill the earth, But I shall sleep. In wars and wars and wars The ever-replenished youth of earth shall shriek And clap their gushing wounds—but I shall sleep, Nor earthy thunder wake me when the cannon Shall shake the throne of Tartarus. Orators Shall fulmine over London or America Of rights eternal, parchments, sacred charters And cut each others' throats when reason fails— But I shall sleep. This globe may last and breed The race of men till Time cries out "How long?" But I shall sleep ten thousand thousand years. I am a dream, Ben, out of a blessed sleep— Let's walk and hear the lark.
SWEET CLOVER
Only a few plants up—and not a blossom My clover didn't catch. What is the matter? Old John comes by. I show him my result.
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