_Sp._ Oh come, come, come! By Him that sent us here. Who’s to enjoy at all, pray let us hear? You won’t; he can’t! Oh, no more fuss! What’s it to him, or he to us? Sing, sing away, be glad and gay, And don’t forget that we shall pay. _Di._ Yes, it is beautiful ever, let foolish men rail at it never. Yes, it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly. Wise are ye others that choose it, and happy ye all that can use it. Life it is beautiful wholly, and could we eliminate only This interfering, enslaving, o’ermastering demon of craving, This wicked tempter inside us to ruin still eager to guide us, Life were beatitude, action a possible pure satisfaction. _Sp._ (Hexameters, by all that’s odious, Beshod with rhyme to run melodious!) _Di._ All as I go on my way I behold them consorting and coupling; Faithful it seemeth, and fond; very fond, very possibly faithful; All as I go on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingled Life it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly, But for perfection attaining is one method only, abstaining; Let us abstain, for we should so, if only we thought that we could so. _Sp._ Bravo, bravissimo! this time though You rather were run short for rhyme though; Not that on that account your verse Could be much better or much worse. This world is very odd we see, We do not comprehend it; But in one fact we all agree, God won’t, and we can’t mend it. Being common sense, it can’t be sin To take it as I find it; The pleasure to take pleasure in; The pain, try not to mind it. _Di._ O let me love my love unto myself alone, And know my knowledge to the world unknown; No witness to the vision call, Beholding, unbeheld of all; And worship thee, with thee withdrawn, apart, Whoe’er, whate’er thou art, Within the closest veil of mine own inmost heart Better it were, thou sayest, to consent, Feast while we may, and live ere life be spent; Close up clear eyes, and call the unstable sure, The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure; In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll, And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the soul. Nay, better far to mark off thus much air, And call it heaven; place bliss and glory there; Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial sky, And say, what is not, will be by-and-by; What here exists not must exist elsewhere. But play no tricks upon thy soul, O man; Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can. _Sp._ To these remarks so sage and clerkly, Worthy of Malebranche or Berkeley, I trust it won’t be deemed a sin If I too answer ‘with a grin.’ These juicy meats, this flashing wine, May be an unreal mere appearance; Only—for my inside, in fine, They have a singular coherence.