Downcast that lusts' desire escapes the springe: 'T is of the mood itself I speak, what tinge Determines it, else colorless,--or mirth, Or melancholy, as from heaven or earth." "'Ay, that's the variation's gist!' Indeed? Thus far advanced in safety then, proceed! And having seen too what I saw, be bold And next encounter what I do behold (That 's sure) but bid you take on trust!" Attack The use and purpose of such sights? Alack, Not so unwisely does the crowd dispense On Salinguerras praise in preference [Sidenote: One ought not blame but praise this;] To the Sordellos: men of action, these! Who, seeing just as little as you please, Yet turn that little to account,--engage With, do not gaze at,--carry on, a stage, The work o' the world, not merely make report The work existed ere their day! In short, When at some future no-time a brave band Sees, using what it sees, then shake my hand In heaven, my brother! Meanwhile where 's the hurt Of keeping the Makers-see on the alert, At whose defection mortals stare aghast As though heaven's bounteous windows were slammed fast Incontinent? Whereas all you, beneath, Should scowl at, bruise their lips and break their teeth Who ply the pullies, for neglecting you: And therefore have I moulded, made anew A Man, and give him to be turned and tried, Be angry with or pleased at. On your side, Have ye times, places, actors of your own? [Sidenote: At all events, his own audience may:] Try them upon Sordello when full-grown, And then--ah then! If Hercules first parched His foot in Egypt only to be marched A sacrifice for Jove with pomp to suit, What chance have I? The demigod was mute Till, at the altar, where time out of mind Such guests became oblations, chaplets twined His forehead long enough, and he began Slaying the slayers, nor escaped a man. Take not affront, my gentle audience! whom No Hercules shall make his hecatomb, Believe, nor from his brows your chaplet rend-- That's your kind suffrage, yours, my patron-friend, Whose great verse blares unintermittent on Like your own trumpeter at Marathon,-- You who, Platæa and Salamis being scant, Put up with Ætna for a stimulant-- And did well, I acknowledged, as he loomed Over the midland sea last month, presumed Long, lay demolished in the blazing West At eve, while towards him tilting cloudlets pressed Like Persian ships at Salamis. Friend, wear A crest proud as desert while I declare Had I a flawless ruby fit to wring Tears of its color from that painted king Who lost it, I would, for that smile which went To my heart, fling it in the sea, content, [Sidenote: What if things brighten, who knows?]