He’s lord of many a burg and farm
And mickle thralls and gold,
And I am but my own right arm,
My dwelling-place the wold. 
But when we twain meet face to face,
He will hot laugh so bold.

The shame he chuckles as he shows
This time he need not tell;
I’ll give his body to the crows,
And his black soul to Hell. 
For he that laughs the last, lads,
Laughs well, laughs well!

THE KING’S SON.

“Daughter, daughter, marry no man,
Though a king’s son come to woo,
If he be not more than blessing or ban
To the secret soul of you.”

“’Tis the King’s son, indeed, I ween,
And he left me even but now,
And he shall make me a dazzling queen,
With a gold crown on my brow.”

“And are you one that a golden crown,
Or the lust of a name can lure? 
You had better wed with a country clown,
And keep your young heart pure.”

“Mother, the King has sworn, and said
That his son shall wed but me;
And I must gang to the prince’s bed,
Or a traitor I shall be.”

“Oh, what care you for an old man’s wrath? 
Or what care you for a king? 
I had rather you fled on an outlaw’s path,
A rebel, a hunted thing.”

“Mother, it is my father’s will,
For the King has promised him fair
A goodly earldom of hollow and hill,
And a coronet to wear.”

“Then woe is worth a father’s name,
For it names your dourest foe! 
I had rather you came the child of shame
Than to have you fathered so.”

“Mother, I shall have gold enow,
Though love be never mine,
To buy all else that the world can show
Of good and fair and fine.”

“Oh, what care you for a prince’s gold,
Or the key of a kingdom’s till? 
I had rather see you a harlot bold
That sins of her own free will.

“For I have been wife for the stomach’s sake,
And I know whereof I say;
A harlot is sold for a passing slake,
But a wife is sold for aye.

“Body and soul for a lifetime sell,
And the price of the sale shall be
That you shall be harlot and slave as well
Until Death set you free.”

LAURANA’S SONG.  FOR “A LADY OF VENICE.”

Who’ll have the crumpled pieces of a heart? 
Let him take mine! 
Who’ll give his whole of passion for a part,
And call’t divine? 
Who’ll have the soiled remainder of desire? 
Who’ll warm his fingers at a burnt-out fire? 
Who’ll drink the lees of love, and cast i’ the mire
The nobler wine?

Let him come here, and kiss me on the mouth,
And have his will! 
Love dead and dry as summer in the South
When winds are still
And all the leafage shrivels in the heat! 
Let him come here and linger at my feet
Till he grow weary with the over-sweet,
And die, or kill.