They went to see the Pope at Rome, To beg his Holiness's pardon: And though the Suisse said "Not at home", They caught him reading in the garden: Down furiously the book he slammed, And bellowed "You may both be damned." In this some hold the Pope was wrong, And went by much beyond his brief: But that's no matter to my song, Nor can it give us great relief That Lettenhove speaks of a stick Which played the old Tannhäuser trick, Bourgeoning into buds of pity, After our friends had left the city. The Pope, he adds, was quite upset, And owned he'd spoken out of pet, Was strangely troubled for their fate, Sent absolution--all too late: For which, he thinks, the Pope must go To join his victims down below. You may conceive the lamentation Of our poor knight on this occasion. He was, like others of his nation, A damned good fellow--only flabby-- Who, on the slightest provocation, Would fight or weep. A speech so shabby As this, he took to heart, because His sense of sin increased his fears; So, on the Milvian Bridge it was His squire found him, bathed in tears, And gathered it was his intent To jump from off that monument. And here our Pons was at his best; He turned the scene from tears to laughter, Said "Cheer-i-o" and all the rest The case demanded: "Since hereafter Our lot is bound to be unpleasant," Said he "let's think about the present; And, since the Pope declares us sinful, By God, old bean, let's have a skinfull. Seeing Old Nick is whom we're meant for We'll wait at least until we're sent for; I see no sort of use in hurry Or going half-way to meet worry. Since when we're dead we'll roast for lust Let's put off dying till we must; And since to roast foredoomed I am, Why liefer for a sheep than lamb; Before we reach the Christian hell, There is another--you know well." The knight deplored this shallow mood, But let Pons lead him where he would. "And they are gone: aye, ages long ago," (That is from Keats),--gone without absolution, Or penitence; nor have we means to know If they regret their hasty resolution. Only La Sale, the encomiast of marriage, (And author of a book still more surprising[6]) In 1420 coming in his carriage, Or on his mule, here archaeologizing In Umbria, heard this curious story: And thinking that there might be more he, As I have said, stopped at the tavern, And even climbed up to the cavern, Whereon, confirming what he'd heard, He puzzled out this awful word-- I give it as the author gave it-- "Her Hans Wanbranbourg (_sic_) _intravit_": I give it just as it was writ HER HANS WANBRANBOURG INTRAVIT.