Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/40
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BEN JONSON ENTERTAINS A MAN FROM STRATFORD
Had left no roads—and there are none, for him;He doesn't see them, even with those eyes,—And that's a pity, or I say it is.Accordingly we have him as we have him—Going his way, the way that he goes best,A pleasant animal with no great noiseOr nonsense anywhere to set him off—Save only divers and inclement devilsHave made of late his heart their dwelling place.A flame half ready to fly out sometimesAt some annoyance may be fanned up in him,But soon it falls, and when it falls goes out;He knows how little room there is in thereFor crude and futile animosities,And how much for the joy of being whole,And how much for long sorrow and old pain.On our side there are some who may be givenTo grow old wondering what he thinks of usAnd some above us, who are, in his eyes,Above himself,—and that's quite right and English.Yet here we smile, or disappoint the godsWho made it so: the gods have always eyesTo see men scratch; and they see one down hereWho itches, manor-bitten to the bone,Albeit he knows himself—yes, yes, he knows—The lord of more than England and of moreThan all the seas of England in all timeShall ever wash. D'ye wonder that I laugh?He sees me, and he doesn't seem to care;And why the devil should he? I can't tell you.
I'll meet him out alone of a bright Sunday,Trim, rather spruce, and quite the gentleman."What ho, my lord!" say I. He doesn't hear me;Wherefore I have to pause and look at him.He's not enormous, but one looks at him.
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