Verses! well, they are made, so let them go; No more if I can help. This is one way The procreant heat and fervour of our youth Escapes, in puff, in smoke, and shapeless words Of mere ejaculation, nothing worth, Unless to make maturer years content To slave in base compliance to the world. I have scarce spoken yet to this strange follower Whom I picked up—ye great gods, tell me where! And when! for I remember such long years, And yet he seems new come. I commune with myself; He speaks, I hear him, and resume to myself; Whate’er I think, he adds his comments to; Which yet not interrupts me. Scarce I know If ever once directly I addressed him: Let me essay it now; for I have strength. Yet what he wants, and what he fain would have, Oh, I know all too surely; not in vain, Although unnoticed, has he dogged my ear. Come, we’ll be definite, explicit, plain; I can resist, I know; and ’twill be well For colloquy to have used this manlier mood, Which is to last, ye chances say how long How shall I call him? Mephistophiles? _Sp._ I come, I come. _Di._ So quick, so eager; ha! Like an eaves-dropping menial on my thought, With something of an exultation too, methinks, Out-peeping in that springy, jaunty gait. I doubt about it. Shall I do it? Oh! oh! Shame on me! come! Shall I, my follower, Should I conceive (not that at all I do, ’Tis curiosity that prompts my speech)— But should I form, a thing to be supposed, A wish to bargain for your merchandise, Say what were your demands? what were your terms! What should I do? what should I cease to do? What incense on what altars must I burn? And what abandon? what unlearn, or learn? Religion goes, I take it. _Sp._ Oh, You’ll go to church of course, you know; Or at the least will take a pew To send your wife and servants to. Trust me, I make a point of that; No infidelity, that’s flat. _Di._ Religion is not in a pew, say some; Cucullus, _you_ hold, _facit_ monachum. _Sp._ Why, as to feelings of devotion I interdict all vague emotion; But if you will, for once and all Compound with ancient Juvenal Orandum est, one perfect prayer For savoir-vivre and savoir-faire. Theology—don’t recommend you, Unless, turned lawyer, Heaven should send you In your profession’s way a case Of Baptism and prevenient grace; But that’s not likely. I’m inclined, All circumstances borne in mind, To think (to keep you in due borders) You’d better enter holy orders. _Di._ On that, my friend, you’d better not insist. _Sp._ Well, well, ’tis but a good thing missed. The item’s optional, no doubt; But how to get you bread without? You’ll marry; I shall find the lady. Make your proposal, and be steady. _Di._ Marry, ill spirit! and at your sole choice?