by Robert Browning

    Gr-r-r——there go， my heart's abhorrence¹！

    Water your damned flower-pots， do！

    If hate killed men， Brother Lawrence，

    God's blood， would not mine kill you！

    What？ your myrtle-bush wants trimming？

    Oh， that rose has prior claims——

    Needs its leaden vase filled brimming？

    Hell dry you up with its flames！

    At the meal we sit together；

    Salve tibi！ I must hear

    Wise talk of the kind of weather，

    Sort of season， time of year：

    Not a plenteous cork² crop： scarcely

    Dare we hope oak-galls， I doubt；

    What's the Latin name for "parsley"？

    What's the Greek name for "swine's snout"？

    Whew！ We'll have our platter burnished³，

    Laid with care on our own shelf！

    With a fire-new spoon we're furnished，

    And a goblet⁴ for ourself，

    Rinsed⁵ like something sacrificial

    Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps——

    Marked with L. for our initial！

    （He-he！ There his lily snaps！）

    Saint， forsooth！ While Brown Dolores

    Squats⁶ outside the Convent bank

    With Sanchicha， telling stories，

    Steeping tresses in the tank，

    Blue-black， lustrous⁷， thick like horsehairs，

    ——Can't I see his dead eye glow，

    Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's？

    （That is， if he'd let it show！）

    When he finishes refection，

    Knife and fork he never lays

    Cross-wise， to my recollection，

    As do I， in Jesu's praise.

    I the Trinity illustrate⁸，

    Drinking watered orange pulp——

    In three sips⁹ the Arian frustrate¹⁰；

    While he drains his at one gulp¹¹！

    Oh， those melons！ if he's able

    We're to have a feast； so nice！

    One goes to the Abbot's table，

    All of us get each a slice.

    How go on your flowers？ None double？

    Not one fruit-sort can you spy？

    Strange！——And I， too， at such trouble，

    Keep them close-nipped on the sly！

    There's a great text in Galatians，

    Once you trip on it， entails¹²

    Twenty-nine district damnations，

    One sure， if another fails；

    If I trip him just a-dying，

    Sure of heaven as sure can be，

    Spin him round and send him flying

    Off to hell， a Manichee？

    Or， my scrofulous French novel

    On grey paper with blunt type！

    Simply glance at it， you grovel¹³

    Hand and foot in Belial's gripe；

    If I double down its pages

    At the woeful sixteenth print，

    When he gathers his greengages，

    Ope a sieve¹⁴ and slip it in't？

    Or， there's Satan！——one might venture

    Pledge one's soul to him， yet leave

    Such a flaw in the indenture¹⁵

    As he'd miss till， past retrieve¹⁶，

    Blasted lay that rose-acacia

    We're so proud of！ Hy， Zy， Hine……

    'St， there's Vespers！ Plena gratia

    Ave， Virgo！ Gr-r-r——you swine！

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