The Equinox (Volume I, Number III)

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