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But of this prophet, Jesus. You must know,
I had been supping late with Rufus Naso,
And young Cornelius, and the Advocate
Publius Julius, and some other wits,
Visitors here from Rome: all full of spirits,
That hardly needed my best Cyprian wine,
Just smacking of the goatskin, to let loose
The sparkling jest, the latest story told
About the Augurs, Seneca's neat phrase,
And your quick repartee, Nerissa's strokes
Of wit, and Lydia's languishing, and all
The pleasant life about the Mammertine,
For which one longs in this Jerusalem.
This growing slack, i' th' hush we heard a song,
A great “Hallel” about the Temple gate,
Repeated here and there all through the town
Pleasantly, for these Jews are musical,
And have a better choir than you in Rome,
With antiphones and linked melodies
That toss the sweet strains to and fro i' th' air,
And pick them up again, and blend their notes
To catch the soul with rapture. I alone
Knew 'twas their Pascha, chief of all their Feasts,
Joyful, yet solemn, not like the wild riot
Of booths and bonfires in the Autumn when
They hold their Lupercalia, and go mad.
We had well drunk, and were in merry humour;
So nought would serve but we must travesty
The rite. By Bacchus, 'twas the rarest prank,
Though it may cost me dear. About midnight
Each girt his coat about him, donned his sandals
As ready for a journey, with a staff
Handy, for so their Priests had ordered it;
And thereupon the slaves brought in the feast.
But for a lamb we had a roasted swine,
Which is abomination to the Jew,
And sweet-baked fruits instead of bitter herbs,
And flagons of rare Cyprus, and we sang
Some ribald songs to the air of their Hallel,
Till far into the morning. As day broke
We heard the loud tramp of a throng of men
Fast hurrying through the streets. That sobered us.
Were those fierce Jews, then, mustering to avenge
The insult? How could I so play the fool,
Knowing the crafty Annas had his spies
About me—that they tell him all I do,
Who visits me, what letters I have writ,
Even what I eat and drink, and all my dallying
With that witch, Leila, whom I half suspect
To be the chief tale-bearer? O crass fool!
To fall into his power for this poor jest.
“Ho! man the walls, draw up the guard in arms!”
Pshaw! 'tis no riot, only some mad prophet
The priests are haling to their courts. He must be
An honest one, for they'd have let him preach
Truculent lies till doomsday.

Well; my head
Was not so clear as it had need to be
After that bout, nor were my nerves well strung,
When there rose clamorous outcry at the gate,
And I must to the Judgment Hall, where stood
A lonely prisoner, bound, and faint, and weary.
Some poor men—fishers, as I deemed, or shepherds—
Flitted about i' th' shadow, looking scared,
As loth to leave him, yet afraid to stand
Right at his side. All his accusers were
Clamouring outside the court. It would have tainted
Their sanctity at such a sacred time,
And barred them from the worship of their God,
To cross our unclean threshold; for we all—
Cæsar and all his Prætors and their courts—
Are in their eyes defiling and unholy.
They might be forging lies: no doubt, they were;
They seldom do aught else. They might imbrue
Their hands in innocent blood; that mattered not;
Such things are trifles to your grim fanatic.
But they must not be tainted by the touch
Of Romans! O my Lucius, how the gods,
If any gods there be, must laugh at us
Who hold them bound by such nice ceremony,
And free from conscience—Would I were a god!