SEVENTH BOOK
‘The woman’s motive? shall we daub ourselves
With finding roots for nettles? ’tis soft clay
And easily explored.She had the means,
The moneys, by the lady’s liberal grace,
In trust for that Australian scheme and me,
Which so, that she might clutch with both her hands,
And chink to her naughty uses undisturbed,
She served me (after all it was not strange;
’Twas only what my mother would have done)
A motherly, unmerciful, good turn.
‘Well, after.There are nettles everywhere,
But smooth green grasses are more common still;
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud;
A miller’s wife at Clichy took me in
And spent her pity on me,—made me calm
And merely very reasonably sad.
She found me a servant’s place in Paris where
I tried to take the cast-off life again,
And stood as quiet as a beaten ass
