The Retort Discourteous, Steven Benét.

The Retort Discourteous.
by Steven Vincent Benét.

(Italy—16th Century)

But what, by the fur on your satin sleeves,
By the rain that drags at my feather,
And by great Mercurius, god of thieves,
Are we thieves doing together?

Last night your blades bit deep for their hire,
And we were the sickled barley.
To-night, a-toast by the common fire,
You ask me to join your parley.

Your spears are shining like Iceland spar,
The blood-grapes are red for your drinking;
For you folk follow the rising star,
I follow the star that is sinking!

My queen is old as the frosted whins,
Nay, how could her wrinkles charm me?
And the starving bones are bursting the skins
In the ranks of her ancient army.

You marshal a steel-and-silken troop,
Your cressets are fed with spices,
And you batter the world like a rolling hoop
To the goal of your proud devices.

I have rocked your thrones—but the fight is won.
To-night, to the highest bidder,
You offer a share of your brigand-sun,
Consider, old bull, consider!

Ahead, red death, and fear of death,
Your vultures, stoop to the slaughter!
But I will fight you, body and breath,
‘Til my life runs out like water!

My queen is wan as the Polar snows.
Her host is a rout of specters;
But I gave her youth, like a burning rose,
And her age shall not lack protectors!

I would not turn for the thunderclap
Or the face of the woman who bore me,
With her ragged badge still scarring my cap,
And the drums of defeat before me.

Roll your hands in the honey of life,
Kneel to your white necked strumpets!
You came to your crowns with a squealing fife,
But I shall go out with the trumpets!

Poison the steel of the plunging dart,
Halloa your hounds to their station!
I go to my ruin with such a heart
As a king to his coronation!

Your poets roar of your golden feats—
I have herded the stars like cattle—
And you may die in the perfumed sheets,
But I shall die in the battle!