This voluble and festive cynicism, Taking fresh head again and yet again, At intervals, to flow an endless stream, From Shimei's mouth, of bitter pleasantry; His vulgarly-presumed familiar airs And leer of mutual understanding, felt Rather than seen, upon his countenance; The gurgling glee of self-complacency That purred, one long susurrus, through his talk; The insufferable assumption tacitly Implied that human virtue was a jest At which the wise between themselves might grin Nor hide their grin with a decorous veil; These things in his unwelcome guest, traits all Inseparably adhering to the man, Or fibre of his nature, Saul recoiled From, and revolted at, habitually: They rendered Shimei's very neighborhood An insupportable disgust to him. Still did some fascination Shimei owned, Perhaps a show of wit in mockery, Playing upon a momentary mood Of uncharacteristic helplessness in Saul (A humor too of wilfulness and spite Against himself displacent with himself That made him hold his sore and quivering pride Hard to the goad that hurt it) keep him mute, If listless, while thus Shimei streamed on: "Well, as I said, friend Saul, I had no pride To carry an opinion of my own; The scheme I brooded was a compromise. I plume myself upon a certain skill I have, knack I should call it, in this line. I like a pretty piece of joinery In plot, such match of motley odds and ends As tickles you with sense of happy hit, And here you have it. See, I take a bit Of magisterial statesmanship to start With--go to Rome, as Caiaphas advised, Though not quite on his errand; Rome agrees To wink, while we indulge ourselves in what To us will be self-rule resumed, to her, A spasm of our Judæan savagery. Thus is the way made eligibly clear For brother Mattathias with those stones He raves about on all occasions--rubbed Smooth, they must be, as David's from the brook, With constant wear in Mattathias' hands! Was it not grim to hear him talk that day? His dream of Maccabæan blood aboil Within his veins has been too much for him, Made him a monomaniac on this point; He sees before him visionary stones, Imponderable stones torment his hands; Give him his chance, have him at last let fly A real stone, a hard one, at somebody, Who knows? it might bring Mattathias round. Stephen at any rate shall be his man, His _corpus vile_, as our masters say-- Fair game of turn and turn about for him, Dog, to have handled you so roughly, Saul! Trick of Beelzebub, no manner of doubt.