'Custom! And yet what profit of it all? The old order changeth yielding place to new, To me small change, and this the Counter-change Of custom beating on the self-same bar-- Change out of chop. Ah me! the talk, the tip, The would-be-evening should-be-mourning suit, The forged solicitude for petty wants More petty still than they,--all these I loathe, Learning they lie who feign that all things come To him that waiteth. I have waited long, And now I go, to mate me with a bride Who is aweary waiting, even as I!' But when the amorous moon of honeycomb Was over, ere the matron-flower of Love-- Step-sister of To-morrow's marmalade-- Swooned scentless, Mariana found her lord Did something jar the nicer feminine sense With usage, being all too fine and large, Instinct of warmth and colour, with a trick Of blunting 'Mariana's' keener edge To 'Mary Ann'--the same but not the same: Whereat she girded, tore her crisped hair, Called him 'Sir Churl,' and ever calling 'Churl!' Drave him to Science, then to Alcohol, To forge a thousand theories of the rocks, Then somewhat else for thousands dewy cool, Wherewith he sought a more Pacific isle And there found love, a duskier love than hers. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. By O--r K--m. Wake! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept, And wailed the Nightingale with 'Jug, jug, jug!' Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose wept. Enter with me where yonder door hangs out Its Red Triangle to a world of drought, Inviting to the Palace of the Djinn, Where Death, Aladdin, waits as Chuckerout. Methought, last night, that one in suit of woe Stood by the Tavern-door and whispered, 'Lo, The Pledge departed, what avails the Cup? Then take the Pledge and let the Wine-cup go.' But I: 'For every thirsty soul that drains This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains-- Free-will the _can_, Necessity the _must_, Pour off the _must_, and, see, the _can_ remains. 'Then, pot or glass, why label it "_With Care_"? Or why your Sheepskin with my Gourd compare? Lo! here the Bar and I the only Judge:-- O, Dog that bit me, I exact an hair!' We are the Sum of things, who jot our score With Caesar's clay behind the Tavern door: And Alexander's armies--where are they, But gone to Pot--that Pot you push for more? And this same Jug I empty, could it speak, Might whisper that itself had been a Beak And dealt me Fourteen Days 'without the Op.'-- Your Worship, see, my lip is on your cheek. Yourself condemned to three score years and ten, Say, did you judge the ways of other men? Why, now, sir, you are hourly filled with wine, And has the clay more licence now than then?