The Eighth Sin/To Venus in the Ashmolean
Dear Goddess, in your quiet eyes
I long have seen the dumb reproof,
But surely charity denies
That you should longer hold aloof.
Dear Goddess, freely I confess—
Great pardon, of your graciousness.
Touching the perfect waist of Venus.
My friend (a very subtle Scot)
Said Thirty-three. I'm sure it's not
Was my retort. As I'm alive
I'll guarantee it's thirty-five.
Base men had let the matter rest—
But we—we put it to the test.
We took a measured length of twine
And came within the sacred shrine.
The Goddess stood, unrobed and stately—
Her purity abashed us greatly—
But while the captious Scot looked out
For keepers strolling round about
I tiptoed up. With horrid qualms
Encircled her with profane arms
And (inly shuddering) then I placed
Unhallowed fingers on her waist,
And her whom I had long adored
I girdled with the impious cord.
O had there been an ancient Greek
To see the faint flush on her cheek
He would have slain me on the spot.
Then said my friend (irreverent Scot)
What do you make it? Thirty-three?
But Venus' eyes were fixed on me
And in my innate chivalry
I could not tell the brutal truth,
(Her girth was thirty-five in sooth)
Your guess was wrong, and so was mine
Quoth I. Her waist is twenty-nine.
And as we hurried down the aisle
Her eyes pursued me with a smile.
How glad we were no-one had seen us
Measuring the waist of Venus.
Dear Goddess, freely I confess
And pray your charity divine,
Surely it makes my guilt the less
Because I called it twenty-nine?
So at my sin you will connive . . .
You know yourself its thirty-five!