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Far away glitter the gem on the peerless neck of a Princess.
Dig, and starve, and be thankful; it is so, and thou hast been aiding.
Often I find myself saying, in irony is it, or earnest?
Yea, what is more, be rich, O ye rich be sublime in great houses,
Purple and delicate linen endure; be of Burgundy patient;
Suffer that service be done you, permit of the page and the valet,
Vex not your souls with annoyance of charity schools or of districts,
Cast not to swine of the sty the pearls that should gleam in your foreheads.
Live, be lovely, forget them, be beautiful even to proudness,
Even for their poor sakes whose happiness is to behold you:
Live, be uncaring, be joyous, be sumptuous; only be lovely,–
Sumptuous not for display, and joyous, not for enjoyment;
Not for enjoyment truly; for Beauty and God's great glory!
Yes, and I say, and it seems inspiration—of Good or of Evil!
Is it not He that hath done it and who shall dare gainsay it?
Is it not even of Him, who hath made us?—Yea, for the lions
Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God!
Is it not even of Him, who one kind over another
All the works of His hand hath disposed in a wonderful order?
Who hath made man, as the beasts, to live the one on the other,
Who hath made man as Himself to know the law—and accept it!
You will wonder at this, my friend I also wonder!
But we must live and learn; we can't know all things at twenty.
List to a letter of Hobbes to Philip his friend at Balloch.
All Cathedrals are Christian, all Christians are Cathedrals,
Such is the orthodox doctrine; 'tis ours with a slight variation;
Every Woman is, or should be a Cathedral,
Built on the ancient plan, a Cathedral pure and perfect,
Built by that only law, that Use be suggestor of Beauty,
Nought be concealed that is done, but all things done to adornment,
Meanest utilities seized as occasions to grace and embellish.—
So had I duly commenced in the spirit and style of my Philip,
So had I formally opened the Treatise upon the Laws of
Architectural Beauty in Application to Women,
So had I writ.—But my fancies are palsied by tidings they tell me,
Tidings—ah me, can it be then that I the blasphemer accounted,
Here am with reverent heed at the wondrous analogy working,
Pondering thy words and thy gestures, whilst thou, a poet apostate,
(How are the mighty fallen!) whilst thou, a shepherd travestie,
(How are the mighty fallen!) with gun,—with pipe no longer,
