Page:Plays in Prose and Verse (1922).djvu/109

Rh That should sit there.

. Somebody has deceived you, Or maybe it was your own eyes that lied, In making it appear that I was driven From the great council. You have driven away The images of them that weave a dance By the four rivers in the mountain garden.

. You mean we have driven poetry away. But that’s not altogether true, for I, As you should know, have written poetry. And often when the table has been cleared, And candles lighted, the King calls for me, And I repeat it him. My poetry Is not to be compared with yours; but still, Where I am honoured, poetry is honoured— In some measure.

. If you are a poet, Cry out that the King’s money would not buy, Nor the high circle consecrate his head, If poets had never christened gold, and even The moon’s poor daughter, that most whey-faced metal, Precious; and cry out that none alive Would ride among the arrows with high heart, Or scatter with an open hand, had not Our heady craft commended wasteful virtues. And when that story’s finished, shake your coat