Behold, I promise—Anything You will.
Behold, I greet you with an empty Till—
Ah! Fellow-Sinners, of your Charity
Seek not the Reason of the Dearth but fill.
For if I sinned and fell, where lies the Gain
Of Knowledge? Would it ease you of your Pain
To know the tangled Threads of Revenue,
I ravel deeper in a hopeless Skein?
"Who hath not Prudence"—what was it I said,
Of Her who paints her Eyes and tires Her Head,
And jibes and mocks the People in the Street,
And fawns upon them for Her thriftless Bread?
Accursed is She of Eve's daughters—She
Hath cast off Prudence, and Her End shall be
Destruction. . . . Brethren, of your Bounty grant
Some portion of your daily Bread to Me!
PAGETT, M.P.
The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where each tooth-point goes;
The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to that toad.
PAGETT, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith,—
He spoke of the heat of India as "The Asian Solar Myth";
Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East" in November,
And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.
