Sir Palamedes

XII Sir PALAMEDE the Saracen Follows the Head to gloomy halls Of sterile hate, with icy walls. A woman clucking like a hen Answers his lordly bugle-calls. She rees him an ungainly rede Of ghosts and virgins, doves and wombs, Of roods and prophecies and tombs— Old pagan fables run to seed! Sir Palamede with fury fumes. So doth the Head that jabbers fast Against that woman’s tangled tale. (God’s patience at the end must fail !) Out sweeps the sword—the blade hath passed Through all her scraggy farthingale. “This chatter lends to Thought a zest ” (Quod he), “but I am all for Act. Sit here, until your Talk hath cracked The addled egg in Nature’s nest!” With that he fled the dismal tract. c 33