·
3 мин
Слушать

The Laboratory-Ancien Régime

I.

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,

May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling  whitely,

As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy—-Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

II.

He is with her, and they know that I

Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears

While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the

Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—-I am here.

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,

Pound at thy powder,—-I am not in haste!

Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things,

Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's.

That in the mortar—-you call it a gum?

Ah, the brave tree whence such  gold  oozings come!

And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,

Sure to taste sweetly,—-is that poison too?

Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,

What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!

To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,

A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket!

Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give,

And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!

But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her

And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!

Quick—-is it finished?

The colour's too grim!

Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim?

Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir,

And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!

What a drop!

She's not little, no minion like me!

That's why she ensnared him: this never will

The soul from those masculine eyes,—-Say, ``no!''To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go.

For only last night, as they whispered,

I

My own eyes to bear on her so, that I

Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would

Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all!

Not that I bid you spare her the pain;

Let death be felt and the proof remain:

Brand, burn up, bite into its grace—-He is sure to remember her dying face!

Is it done?

Take my mask off!

Nay, be not morose;

It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close;

The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee!

If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,

You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!

But brush this dust off me, lest horror it

Ere I know it—-next moment I dance at the King's!

0
0
19
Подарок

Robert Browning

Robert Browning (7 May 1812 – 12 December 1889) was an English poet and playwright whose mastery of the dramatic monologue made him one of the f…
Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий
Сегодня читают
Ryfma
Ryfma - это социальная сеть для публикации книг, стихов и прозы, для общения писателей и читателей. Публикуй стихи и прозу бесплатно.