The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies. John Keats

      Give me women, wine and snuff

      Until I cry out ‘hold, enough!’

      You may do so sans objection

      Till the day of resurrection;

      For bless my beard they aye shall be

      My beloved Trinity.

      The Gothic looks solemn,

      The plain Doric column

      Supports an old Bishop and Crosier;

      The mouldering arch,

      Shaded o’er by a larch

      Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.

      Vicè – that is, by turns, -

      O’er pale faces mourns

      The black tassell’d trencher and common hat

      The Chantry boy sings,

      The Steeple-bell rings,

      And as for the Chancellor – dominat.

      There are plenty of trees,

      And plenty of ease,

      And plenty of fat deer for parsons:

      And when it is venison,

      Short is the benison, -

      Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.

      How fever’d is the man, who cannot look

      Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,

      Who vexes all the leaves of his life’s book,

      And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;

      It is as if the rose should pluck herself,

      Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,

      As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,

      Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom,

      But the rose leaves herself upon the briar,

      For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,

      And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire

      The undisturbed lake has crystal space,

      Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,

      Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?

      In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool,

      There stood, or hover’d, tremulous in the air,

      A faery city ‘neath the potent rule

      Of Emperor Elfinan; fam’d ev’rywhere

      For love of mortal women, maidens fair,

      Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made

      Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare,

      To tamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid:

      He lov’d girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade.

      This was a crime forbidden by the law;

      And all the priesthood of his city wept,

      For ruin and dismay they well foresaw,

      If impious prince no bound or limit kept,

      And faery Zendervester overstept;

      They wept, he sin’d, and still he would sin on,

      They dreamt of sin, and he sin’d while they slept;

      In vain the pulpit thunder’d at the throne,

      Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon.

      Which seeing, his high court of parliament

      Laid a remonstrance at his Highness’ feet,

      Praying his royal senses to content

      Themselves with what in faery land was sweet,

      Befitting best that shade with shade should meet:

      Whereat, to calm their fears, he promis’d soon

      From mortal tempters all to make retreat,

      Aye, even on the first of the new moon,

      An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven’s boon.

      Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy

      To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign,

      To half beg, and half demand, respectfully,

      The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine;

      An audience had, and speeching done, they gain

      Their point, and bring the weeping bride away;

      Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain

      Upon their wings, they bore in bright array,

      While little harps were touch’d by many a lyric fay.

      As in old pictures tender cherubim

      A child’s soul thro’ the sapphir’d canvas bear,

      So, thro’ a real heaven, on they swim

      With the sweet princess on her plumag’d lair,

      Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair;

      And so she journey’d, sleeping or awake,

      Save when, for healthful exercise and air,

      She chose to “promener à l’aile,” or take

      A pigeon’s somerset, for sport or change’s sake.

      “Dear Princess, do not whisper me so loud,”

      Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant,

      “Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud,

      Close at your back, that sly old Crafticant?

      He hears a whisper plainer than a rant:

      Dry up your tears, and do not look so blue;

      He’s Elfinan’s great state-spy militant,

      His running, lying, flying foot-man too,

      Dear mistress, let him have no handle against you!

      “Show him a mouse’s tail, and he will guess,

      With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse;

      Show him a garden, and with speed no less,

      He’ll surmise sagely of a dwelling house,

      And

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