Nelson for setting spy-glass to blind eye And saying.. what was it, that he could not see The signal he was bothered? Ay, indeed! I'll go beyond: there's a real love of a lie, The floor o' the seeming solid sand! But no! But making for the mid-bog, all the same! To hear your outcries, one would think I caught Miss Stokes by the scuff o' the neck, and pitched her flat, Foolish-face-foremost! Hear these simpletons, That's all I beg, before my work's begun, It's reasoning, this is, I can't imitate — The baby voice, though-In so many tales To the judgment-seat at once, why, don't you note Fools, these are: ay, and how of their opposites Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use, With superstition safely, cold of blood, Who saw what made for them in the mystery, Took their occasion, and supported Sludge As proselytes? No, thank you, far too shrewd ! Of the claimant; who in candor needs must hoist Did n't Athens treat Saint Paul so?. - at any rate, Of the doctrine, flavors thence, he well knows how, --- All for the book's sake, and the public's stare, And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world! Look at him! Try to be too bold, too gross For the master! Not you! He's the man for muck; Shovel it forth, full-splash, he 'll smooth your brown Into artistic richness, never fear! Find him the crude stuff; when you recognize Your lie again, you'll doff your hat to it, I say, since there's the relish of success: Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth, Save the soft silent smirking gentleman Who ushered in the stranger: you must sigh "How melancholy, he, the only one, Fails to perceive the bearing of the truth. Himself gave birth to!"-There's the triumph's smack! I' the slime o' the slough, so he might touch the tip Yet I think There's a more hateful form of foolery – The social sage's, Solomon of saloons Prove how much common sense he 'll hack and hew These were my patrons: these, and the like of them These I have injured! Gratitude to these? The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostitute To the greenhorn and the bully, friends of hers, From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club, To the snuff-box-decorator, honest man, Who just was at his wits' end where to find So genial a Pasiphae! All and each Pay, compliment, protect from the police, And how she hates them for their pains, like me! Toward a deserving public! But, for God? Ay, that's a question! Well, sir, since you press I don't mean you, you know when I say "them”: Now for it, then! Will you believe me though? Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work, By the same token, though it seem to set Stick up what I've thrown down: I can't help that: It's truth! I somehow vomit truth to-day. |