Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

　　by Robert Browning

　　 Gr-r-r--there go， my heart's abhorrence！

　　 Water your damned flower-pots， do！

　　 If hate killed men， Brother Lawrence，

　　 God's blood， would not mine kill you！

　　 What？ your myrtle-bush wants trimming？

　　 Oh， that rose has prior claims--

　　 Needs its leaden vase filled brimming？

　　 Hell dry you up with its flames！

　　 At the meal we sit together；

　　 Salve tibi！ I must hear

　　 Wise talk of the kind of weather，

　　 Sort of season， time of year：

　　 Not a plenteous cork crop： scarcely

　　 Dare we hope oak-galls， I doubt；

　　 What's the Latin name for "parsley"？

　　 What's the Greek name for "swine's snout"？

　　 Whew！ We'll have our platter burnished，

　　 Laid with care on our own shelf！

　　 With a fire-new spoon we're furnished，

　　 And a goblet for ourself，

　　 Rinsed like something sacrificial

　　 Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps--

　　 Marked with L. for our initial！

　　 （He-he！ There his lily snaps！）

　　 Saint， forsooth！ While Brown Dolores

　　 Squats outside the Convent bank

　　 With Sanchicha， telling stories，

　　 Steeping tresses in the tank，

　　 Blue-black， lustrous， thick like horsehairs，

　　 --Can't I see his dead eye glow，

　　 Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's？

　　 （That is， if he'd let it show！）

　　 When he finishes refection，

　　 Knife and fork he never lays

　　 Cross-wise， to my recollection，

　　 As do I， in Jesu's praise.

　　 I the Trinity illustrate，

　　 Drinking watered orange pulp--

　　 In three sips the Arian frustrate；

　　 While he drains his at one gulp！

　　 Oh， those melons！ if he's able

　　 We're to have a feast； so nice！

　　 One goes to the Abbot's table，

　　 All of us get each a slice.

　　 How go on your flowers？ None double？

　　 Not one fruit-sort can you spy？

　　 Strange！--And I， too， at such trouble，

　　 Keep them close-nipped on the sly！

　　 There's a great text in Galatians，

　　 Once you trip on it， entails

　　 Twenty-nine district damnations，

　　 One sure， if another fails；

　　 If I trip him just a-dying，

　　 Sure of heaven as sure can be，

　　 Spin him round and send him flying

　　 Off to hell， a Manichee？

　　 Or， my scrofulous French novel

　　 On grey paper with blunt type！

　　 Simply glance at it， you grovel

　　 Hand and foot in Belial's gripe；

　　 If I double down its pages

　　 At the woeful sixteenth print，

　　 When he gathers his greengages，

　　 Ope a sieve and slip it in't？

　　 Or， there's Satan！--one might venture

　　 Pledge one's soul to him， yet leave

　　 Such a flaw in the indenture

　　 As he'd miss till， past retrieve，

　　 Blasted lay that rose-acacia

　　 We're so proud of！ Hy， Zy， Hine......

　　 'St， there's Vespers！ Plena gratia

　　 Ave， Virgo！ Gr-r-r--you swine！