’Were it a question of lawful due
Or Caesar’s rule denied,
Reason would I should bear with you
And order it well to be tried;
But this is a question of words and names. 
I know the strife it brings. 
I will not pass upon any your claims. 
I care for none of these things.

’One thing only I see most clear,
As I pray you also see. 
Claudius Caesar hath set me here
Rome’s Deputy to be. 
It is Her peace that ye go to break—­
Not mine, nor any king’s. 
But, touching your clamour of “Conscience sake,”
I care for none of these things.

’Whether ye rise for the sake of a creed,
Or riot in hope of spoil,
Equally will I punish the deed,
Equally check the broil;
Nowise permitting injustice at all
From whatever doctrine it springs—­
But—­whether ye follow Priapus or Paul,
I care for none of these things.’

THE BEES AND THE FLIES

A farmer of the Augustan Age
Perused in Virgil’s golden page,
The story of the secret won
From Proteus by Cyrene’s son—­
How the dank sea-god showed the swain
Means to restore his hives again. 
More briefly, how a slaughtered bull
Breeds honey by the bellyful.

The egregious rustic put to death
A bull by stopping of its breath,
Disposed the carcass in a shed
With fragrant herbs and branches spread,
And, having thus performed the charm,
Sat down to wait the promised swarm.

Nor waited long.  The God of Day
Impartial, quickening with his ray
Evil and good alike, beheld
The carcass—­and the carcass swelled. 
Big with new birth the belly heaves
Beneath its screen of scented leaves. 
Past any doubt, the bull conceives!

The farmer bids men bring more hives
To house the profit that arrives;
Prepares on pan, and key and kettle,
Sweet music that shall make ’em settle;
But when to crown the work he goes,
Gods! what a stink salutes his nose!

Where are the honest toilers?  Where
The gravid mistress of their care? 
A busy scene, indeed, he sees,
But not a sign or sound of bees. 
Worms of the riper grave unhid
By any kindly coffin lid,
Obscene and shameless to the light,
Seethe in insatiate appetite,
Through putrid offal, while above
The hissing blow-fly seeks his love,
Whose offspring, supping where they supt,
Consume corruption twice corrupt.

ROAD-SONG OF THE BANDAR-LOG

Here we go in a flung festoon,
Half-way up to the jealous moon! 
Don’t you envy our pranceful bands? 
Don’t you wish you had extra hands? 
Wouldn’t you like if your tails were—­so—­
Curved in the shape of a Cupid’s bow? 
  Now you’re angry, but—­never mind,
  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two—­
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could. 
  Now we’re going to—­never mind,
  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!