FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 29:  Wright’s Walter Mapes, p. xlv.]

THE CONFESSION OF GOLIAS.

No. 5.

    Boiling in my spirit’s veins
      With fierce indignation,
    From my bitterness of soul
      Springs self-revelation: 
    Framed am I of flimsy stuff,
      Fit for levitation,
    Like a thin leaf which the wind
      Scatters from its station.

    While it is the wise man’s part
      With deliberation
    On a rock to base his heart’s
      Permanent foundation,
    With a running river I
      Find my just equation,
    Which beneath the self-same sky
      Hath no habitation.

    Carried am I like a ship
      Left without a sailor,
    Like a bird that through the air
      Flies where tempests hale her;
    Chains and fetters hold me not,
      Naught avails a jailer;
    Still I find my fellows out,
      Toper, gamester, railer.

    To my mind all gravity
      Is a grave subjection;
    Sweeter far than honey are
      Jokes and free affection. 
    All that Venus bids me do,
      Do I with erection,
    For she ne’er in heart of man
      Dwelt with dull dejection.

    Down the broad road do I run,
      As the way of youth is;
    Snare myself in sin, and ne’er
      Think where faith and truth is;
    Eager far for pleasure more
      Than soul’s health, the sooth is,
    For this flesh of mine I care,
      Seek not ruth where ruth is.

    Prelate, most discreet of priests,
      Grant me absolution! 
    Dear’s the death whereof I die,
      Sweet my dissolution;
    For my heart is wounded by
      Beauty’s soft suffusion;
    All the girls I come not nigh,
      Mine are in illusion.

    ’Tis most arduous to make
      Nature’s self surrender;
    Seeing girls, to blush and be
      Purity’s defender! 
    We young men our longings ne’er
      Shall to stern law render,
    Or preserve our fancies from
      Bodies smooth and tender.

    Who, when into fire he falls,
      Keeps himself from burning? 
    Who within Pavia’s walls
      Fame of chaste is earning? 
    Venus with her finger calls
      Youths at every turning,
    Snares them with her eyes, and thralls
      With her amorous yearning.

    If you brought Hippolitus
      To Pavia Sunday,
    He’d not be Hippolitus
      On the following Monday;
    Venus there keeps holiday
      Every day as one day;
    ’Mid these towers in no tower dwells
      Venus Verecunda.