| |
[Ancien Régime]
NOW that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, | |
| May gaze thro’ these faint smokes curling whitely, | |
| As thou pliest thy trade in this devil’s-smithy— | |
| Which is the poison to poison her, prithee? | |
| |
| He is with her; and they know that I know | 5 |
| Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow | |
| While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear | |
| Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—I am here. | |
| |
| Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, | |
| Pound at thy powder,—I am not in haste! | 10 |
| Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things, | |
| Than go where men wait me and dance at the King’s. | |
| |
| That in the mortar—you call it a gum? | |
| Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! | |
| And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue, | 15 |
| Sure to taste sweetly,—is that poison too? | |
| |
| Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, | |
| What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures! | |
| To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, | |
| A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree-basket! | 20 |
| |
| Soon, at the King’s, a mere lozenge to give | |
| And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live! | |
| But to light a pastille, and Elise, with her head | |
| And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead! | |
| |
| Quick—is it finished? The colour ’s too grim! | 25 |
| Why not soft like the phial’s, enticing and dim? | |
| Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, | |
| And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer! | |
| |
| What a drop! She ’s not little, no minion like me— | |
| That ’s why she ensnared him: this never will free | 30 |
| The soul from those masculine eyes,—say, ‘no!’ | |
| To that pulse’s magnificent come-and-go. | |
| |
| For only last night, as they whisper’d, I brought | |
| My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought | |
| Could I keep them one half minute fix’d, she would fall, | 35 |
| Shrivell’d; she fell not; yet this does it all! | |
| |
| Not that I bid you spare her the pain! | |
| Let death be felt and the proof remain; | |
| Brand, burn up, bite into its grace— | |
| He is sure to remember her dying face! | 40 |
| |
| Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose, | |
| It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close: | |
| The delicate droplet, my whole fortune’s fee— | |
| If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me? | |
| |
| Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, | 45 |
| You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will! | |
| But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings | |
| Ere I know it—next moment I dance at the King’s! | |
| |
