54
THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD
When, where the mice and lice infest
A filthy hovel, lies a wench
Bearing a baby at her breast,
Drunk and debauched, one solid stench,
But carrying a silver lute.
’Boardeth her, nor doth baulk nor blench,
And long abideth brute by brute
Amid the unsavoury denizens,
Until his melodies uproot
The oaks, lure lions from their dens,
Turn rivers back, and still the spleen
Of serpents and of Saracens.
Thus then equipped, he quits the quean,
And in a city fair and wide
Calls up with music wild and keen
The Questing Marvel to his side.
Then do the sportful city folk
About his lonely stance abide:
Making their holiday, they joke
The melancholy ass: they throw
Their clattering coppers in his poke.
So day and night they come and go,
But never comes the Questing Beast,
Nor doth that laughing people know