A Legend of Camelot Pictures and Poems, &c., By George du Maurier |
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A Ballad of Blunders.
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 | A Legend of Camelot |  |
53
A Ballad of Blunders.
54
The Blunder of Short Garments. Thou shalt wear
Thy supple thighs in sheaths of splendid fit,
Much use whereof shall surely render bare
The mystery, yea, the very threads of it;
And cold shall seize thee standing; should'st thou sit,
Thy skin shall vex thee with its tenderness;
Or stoop, thy perilous underseam shall split;
This is the end of every man's excess.
Thy supple thighs in sheaths of splendid fit,
Much use whereof shall surely render bare
The mystery, yea, the very threads of it;
And cold shall seize thee standing; should'st thou sit,
Thy skin shall vex thee with its tenderness;
Or stoop, thy perilous underseam shall split;
This is the end of every man's excess.
The Blunder of Gay Seasons. Strange delight;
Thy seething garb shall cleave to thee, and cling;
Thy red wet palm shall reek beneath the white;
And fierce black shining leather bite and sting,
A future of sore troubles gathering;
The dawn shall send thee, cold and comfortless,
Creeping along the kerb, an abject thing.
This is the end of every man's excess.
Thy seething garb shall cleave to thee, and cling;
Thy red wet palm shall reek beneath the white;
And fierce black shining leather bite and sting,
A future of sore troubles gathering;
The dawn shall send thee, cold and comfortless,
Creeping along the kerb, an abject thing.
This is the end of every man's excess.
The Blunder of Much Music. Sit thee down,
Nay, stop thine ears, and sleep. For verily,
She that is playing heedeth not thy frown,
And she that singeth takes no thought for thee;
And song shall follow song till thou shalt be
Smitten and bitten with fierce restlessness
To bite and smite in turn, or turn to flee;
This is the end of every man's excess.
Nay, stop thine ears, and sleep. For verily,
She that is playing heedeth not thy frown,
And she that singeth takes no thought for thee;
And song shall follow song till thou shalt be
Smitten and bitten with fierce restlessness
To bite and smite in turn, or turn to flee;
This is the end of every man's excess.
The Blunder of Great Banquets. Out of sight,
Beyond the reach of hands that heal for gain,
The dish of thy desire and thy delight
Shall vex thy sleep. Thou shalt behold again
The Lord Knight Mayor, thy host, as King of Pain;
And lo, the worthy lady Mayoress
As Queen of Pleasure in thy fond heart shall reign;
This is the end of every man's excess.
Beyond the reach of hands that heal for gain,
The dish of thy desire and thy delight
Shall vex thy sleep. Thou shalt behold again
The Lord Knight Mayor, thy host, as King of Pain;
And lo, the worthy lady Mayoress
As Queen of Pleasure in thy fond heart shall reign;
This is the end of every man's excess.
The Blunder of Long Speeches. Thou shalt burn
To see men whisper, and thy voice grow thick,
And shame shall stain thee red and white by turn,
And all thy wine shall rise and make thee sick;
And short swift sobs shall take thy breath betw-hic!
And in thy skull shall be much emptiness,
And in thy stead, the likeness of a stick.
This is the end of every man's excess.
To see men whisper, and thy voice grow thick,
And shame shall stain thee red and white by turn,
And all thy wine shall rise and make thee sick;
And short swift sobs shall take thy breath betw-hic!
And in thy skull shall be much emptiness,
And in thy stead, the likeness of a stick.
This is the end of every man's excess.
The Blunder of Late Hours. Leave thy sad bed;
See what strange things shall grieve thy straining sight:
Stray broken glass to greet the dawn; grey dead
Strewn ashes of the weeds of thy delight;
Sick sterile leavings of the hot fierce night;
Yet must thou bend thee to thy business
Thy brain to brood; thy tremulous hand to write;
This is the end of every man's excess.
See what strange things shall grieve thy straining sight:
Stray broken glass to greet the dawn; grey dead
Strewn ashes of the weeds of thy delight;
Sick sterile leavings of the hot fierce night;
Yet must thou bend thee to thy business
Thy brain to brood; thy tremulous hand to write;
This is the end of every man's excess.
55
Blunder of Strong Spirits; warm and sweet,
Or cold without, and pale; whereof to tread
The wild wet ways is perilous to thy feet,
And in thine eyes, where green was, lo, the red;
And where thy sinew, soft weak fat instead;
Burning of heart, and much uneasiness
About thy girdle, and aching in thine head;
This is the end of every man's excess.
Or cold without, and pale; whereof to tread
The wild wet ways is perilous to thy feet,
And in thine eyes, where green was, lo, the red;
And where thy sinew, soft weak fat instead;
Burning of heart, and much uneasiness
About thy girdle, and aching in thine head;
This is the end of every man's excess.
The Blunder of Much Rhyming. If thou write
That once again that should be once for all,
These market-men will buy thy black and white
Till thy keen swift full fervent ways shall fall
On sated ears; thy stinging sweetness pall;
And barren memories of thy bright success
Shall burst in thee the bladder of thy gall;
This is the end of every man's excess.
That once again that should be once for all,
These market-men will buy thy black and white
Till thy keen swift full fervent ways shall fall
On sated ears; thy stinging sweetness pall;
And barren memories of thy bright success
Shall burst in thee the bladder of thy gall;
This is the end of every man's excess.
The Blunder of Long Ballads. Bide in peace;
For when the night is near, the day shall die,
And when the day shall dawn the night shall cease,
And all things have an end of all; and I
An end of this, for that my lips are dry,
And the eleventh hour's exceeding heaviness
Doth overweigh mine eyelid on mine eye . . .
This is the end of every man's excess.
For when the night is near, the day shall die,
And when the day shall dawn the night shall cease,
And all things have an end of all; and I
An end of this, for that my lips are dry,
And the eleventh hour's exceeding heaviness
Doth overweigh mine eyelid on mine eye . . .
This is the end of every man's excess.
MORAL.
Poets, who tread the fast and flowerful way,Heed well the burden these sad rhymes impress;
Pleasure is first, and then the time to pay;
This is the end of every man's excess.
Chatouillard.
| A Legend of Camelot | |