Be of its momentary laurel stripped And made a show of stuck on Temple Bar Or at the Southwark end of London Bridge, What mattered it? At worst man dies but once-- So far as known. One may not master death, But life should be one's lackey. He had been Time's dupe and bondsman; ever since his birth Had walked this planet with his eye oblique, Grasped what was worthless, what were most dear missed; Missed love and fame, and all the sum of things Fame gets a man in England--the Queen's smile, Which means, when she 's in humor, abbey-lands, Appointments, stars and ribbons for the breast, And that sleek adulation that takes shape I' the down-drooping of obsequious lids When one ascends a stair or walks the pave. Good Lord! but it was excellent to see How Expectation in the ante-room Crooks back to Greatness passing to the Queen-- “Kind sir!” “Sweet sir!” “I prithee speed my suit!” 'T was somewhat to be flattered, though by fools, For even a fool's coin hath a kind of ring. Yet after all--thus did the grapes turn sour To master Fox, in fable--who would care To moil and toil to gain a little fame, And have each rascal that prowls under heaven Stab one for getting it? Had he wished power, The thing was in the market-place for sale At stated rates--so much for a man's soul! His was a haughty spirit that bent not, And one to rise had need to cringe and creep. So had his brother into favor crawled, Like slug into the bosom of a rose, And battened in the sun. At thought of him, Forgotten for a moment, Wyndham winced, And felt his wound. “Why bides he not in Town With his blond lovelock and wench-luring ways-- There runs his fox! What foul fiend sends him here To Wyndham Towers? Is there not space enough In this our England he needs crowd me so? Has London sack upon his palate staled, That he must come to sip my Devon cream? Are all maids shut in nunneries save this one? What magic philtre hath he given her To thaw the ice that melted not for me? Rich is he now that at his setting forth Had not two silver pieces to his purse. It is his brave apparel dazzles her. Thus puts he bound and barrier to my love. Another man were he abused as I... I'll have no more of him! If I but dared-- Nay, I dare not. I have fawn's blood, I think; I would, and dare not!” Thrice the hooded clock Solemnly, like some old Carthusian monk With meagre face half seen beneath his cowl, Intoned the quarter. Memory went not back When this was not a most familiar sound, Yet as each stroke on the dead silence fell Wyndham turned, startled. Now the sanguine moon, To clouded opal changing momently, Rose sheer above the pine-trees' ragged edge,