At The Mermaid

The figure that thou here seest . . . Tut!     Was it for gentle Shakespeare put?     - B. JORSON. (Adapted.)     I next poet? No, my hearties,     I nor am nor fain would be!     Choose your chiefs and pick your parties,     Not one soul revolt to me!     I, forsooth, sow song-sedition?     I, a schism in verse provoke?     I, blown up by bards ambition,     Burst, your bubble-king? You joke.     Come, be grave! The sherris mantling     Still about each mouth, mayhap,     Breeds you insight, just a scantling,     Brings me truth out, just a scrap.     Look and tell me! Written, spoken,     Heres my life-long work: and where     Wheres your warrant or my token     Im the dead kings son and heir?     Heres my work: does work discover,     What was rest from work, my life?     Did I live mans hater, lover?     Leave the world at peace, at strife?     Call earth ugliness or beauty?     See things there in large or small?     Use to pay its Lord my duty?     Use to own a lord at all?     Blank of such a record, truly,     Heres the work I hand, this scroll,     Yours to take or leave; as duly,     Mine remains the unproffered soul.     So much, no whit more, my debtors,     How should one like me lay claim     To that largess elders, betters     Sell you cheap their souls for fame?     Which of you did I enable     Once to slip inside my breast,     There to catalogue and label     What I like least, what love best,     Hope and fear, believe and doubt of,     Seek and shun, respect, deride?     Who has right to make a rout of     Rarities he found inside?     Rarities or, as hed rather,     Rubbish such as stocks his own:     Need and greed (oh, strange) the Father     Fashioned not for him alone!     Whence, the comfort set a-strutting,     Whence, the outcry Haste, behold!     Bards breast open wide, past shutting,     Shows what brass we took for gold!     Friends, I doubt not hed display you     Brass, myself call orichalc,     Furnish much amusement; pray you     Therefore, be content I balk     Him and you, and bar my portal!     Heres my work outside: opine     Whats inside me mean and mortal!     Take your pleasure, leave me mine!     Which is, not to buy your laurel     As last king did, nothing loth.     Tale adorned and pointed moral     Gained him praise and pity both.     Out rushed sighs and groans by dozens     Forth by scores oaths, curses flew:     Proving you were cater-cousins,     Kith and kindred, king and you!     Whereas do I neer so little     (Thanks to sherris), leave ajar     Bosoms gate, no jot nor tittle     Grow we nearer than we are.     Sinning, sorrowing, despairing,     Body-ruined, spirit-wrecked,     Should I give my woes an airing,     Wheres one plague that claims respect?     Have you found your life distasteful?     My life did and does smack sweet.     Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?     Mine I saved and hold complete.     Do your joys with age diminish?     When mine fail me, Ill complain.     Must in death your daylight finish?     My sun sets to rise again.     What, like you, he proved, your Pilgrim,     This our world a wilderness,     Earth still gray and heaven still grim,     Not a hand there his might press,     Not a heart his own might throb to,     Men all rogues and women, say,     Dolls which boys heads duck and bob to,     Grown folk drop or throw away?     My experience being other,     How should I contribute verse     Worthy of your king and brother?     Balaam-like I bless, not curse.     I find earth not gray but rosy,     Heaven not grim but fair of hue.     Do I stoop? I pluck a posy.     Do I stand and stare? Alls blue.     Doubtless I am pushed and shoved by     Rogues and fools enough: the more     Good luck mine, I love, am loved by     Some few honest to the core.     Scan the near high, scout the far low!     But the low come close: what then?     Simpletons? My match is Marlowe;     Sciolists? My mate is Ben.     Womankind, the cat-like nature,     False and fickle, vain and weak,     What of this sad nomenclature     Suits my tongue, if I must speak?     Does the sex invite, repulse so,     Tempt, betray, by fits and starts?     So becalm but to convulse so,     Decking heads and breaking hearts?     Well may you blaspheme at fortune!     I threw Venus (Ben, expound!)     Never did I need importune     Her, of all the Olympian round.     Blessings on my benefactress!     Cursings suit, for aught I know,     Those who twitched her by the back tress,     Tugged and thought to turn her so!     Therefore, since no leg to stand on     Thus Im left with, joy or grief     Be the issue, I abandon     Hope or care you name me Chief!     Chief and king and Lords anointed,     I? who never once have wished     Death before the day appointed:     Lived and liked, not poohed and pished!     Ah, but so I shall not enter,     Scroll in hand, the common heart,     Stopped at surface: since at centre     Song should reach Welt-schmers, world-smart!     Enter in the heart? Its Shelly     Cuirass guard mine, fore and aft!     Such song enters in the belly     And is cast out in the draught.     Back then to our sherris-brewage!     Kingship quotha? I shall wait,     Waive the present time: some new age . . .     But let fools anticipate!     Meanwhile greet me, friend, good fellow,     Gentle Will, my merry men!     As for making Envy yellow     With Next Poet, (Manners, Ben!)