’Conceiveth all things will continue thus,
And we shall have to live in fear of Him
So long as He lives, keeps His strength:  no change,
If He have done His best, make no new world
To please Him more, so leave off watching this,—­
If He surprise not even the Quiet’s self
Some strange day,—­or, suppose, grow into it
As grubs grow butterflies:  else, here are we,
And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

’Believeth with the life the pain shall stop. 250
His dam held different, that after death
He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: 
Idly!  He doth His worst in this our life,
Giving just respite lest we die thro’ pain,
Saving last pain for worst,—­with which, an end. 
Meanwhile, the best way to escape His Ire
Is, not to seem too happy.  ’Sees, himself,
Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink,
Bask on the pompion-bell above:  kills both. 
’Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball 260
On head and tail as if to save their lives: 
’Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.

Even so, ’would have him misconceive, suppose
This Caliban strives hard and ails no less,
And always, above all else, envies Him;
Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights,
Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh,
And never speaks his mind save housed as now: 
Outside, ’groans, curses.  If He caught me here,
O’erheard this speech, and asked “What chucklest at?” 270
’Would to appease Him, cut a finger off,
Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best,
Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree,
Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: 
While myself lit a fire, and made a song
And sung it, "What I hate, be consecrate
To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate
For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?"
Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend,
Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, 280
That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch
And conquer Setebos, or likelier He
Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.

[What, what?  A curtain o’er the world at once! 
Crickets stop hissing; not a bird—­or, yes,
There scuds His raven, that hath told Him all! 
It was fool’s play, this prattling!  Ha!  The wind
Shoulders the pillared dust, death’s house o’ the move,
And fast invading fires begin!  White blaze—­
A tree’s head snaps—­and there, there, there, there, there, 290
His thunder follows!  Fool to gibe at Him! 
So!  ’Lieth flat and loveth Setebos! 
‘Maketh his teeth meet thro’ his upper lip,
Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month
One little mess of whelks, so he may ’scape!]

* * * * *

“CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME”

(See Edgar’s song in “Lear.")