1

Master Cheng is thirty — and doesn't have a job!
He's studied books, practiced swordsmanship — and gotten
nowhere!
He would drag his young companions into bars to drink,
and they'd spend their days banging on drums,
or blowing into mouth-organs.
This year, his father died, leaving him an inheritance
of old books,
but the tattered volumes with torn pages
can't be appraised that fast.
Meanwhile, the stove is cold, the firewood has nearly run out,
and the debt collector is beating on the front gate!

Now do our eyes behold
The tidings which were told:
Twin fallen kings, twin perished hopes to mourn,
The slayer, the slain,
The entangled doom forlorn
And ruinous end of twain.
Say, is not sorrow, is not sorrow's sum
On home and hearthstone come?
O waft with sighs the sail from shore,
O smite the bosom, cadencing the oar
That rows beyond the rueful stream for aye
To the far strand,
The ship of souls, the dark,
The unreturning bark
Whereon light never falls nor foot of Day,
Ev'n to the bourne of all, to the unbeholden land.

Part First

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.

And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want.

War ships, cold tides,
ancient troops of clouds,
crows like crazy dots of ink
splashed against the dying sun:
here, on the west bank of the Yangtze,
at Ju-hsü entrenchment,
as the spring waters start to rise
I say farewell to you.

angel:
Scene I--A moor
Enter Coll alone.

coll:Lord, what these weders ar cold, and I am ill happid;
I am nerehande dold, so lon, so long have I nappid;
My legis thay fold, my fingers ar chappid.
It is not as I wold, for I am al lappid
In sorow,
In stormes and tempest,
Now in the eest, now in the west.
Wo is him has never rest
Midday nor morow.

Bot we sely husbandis that walkis on the moore,
In faith we are nerehandis outt of the doore.
No wonder, as it standis, if we be poore,

And David lamented with this lamentation over Saul and over Jonathan his son: . . .
The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!
Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.
Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain, upon you, nor fields of offerings: for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil.

19. The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places how are the mighty fallen!
20. Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon; I, 19-20 lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.
21. Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain, upon you, nor fields of offerings: for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil.

Strew not earth with empty stars,
Strew it not with roses,
Nor feathers from the crest of Mars,
Nor summer's idle posies.
'Tis not the primrose-sandalled moon,
Nor cold and silent morn,
Nor he that climbs the dusty noon,
Nor mower war with scythe that drops,
Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops
Of enemies new-shorn.
Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know,
Pour your music, let it flow,
'Tis Bacchus' son who walks below.

Spoken by two young Ladies

Child! we must quit these visionary scenes,
And end our follies when we end our teens;
These bagatelles we must relinquish now,
And good matronic gentlewomen grow:
Fancy no more on airy wings shall rise,
We now must scold the maids, and make the pies;
Verse is a folly — we must get above it,
And yet I know not how it is — I love it.

The Battle of Flodden

Then the mighty Lord Maxfield over the mountains fleeth,
And kyred to his king with careful tithindes,
Telleth him the truth, and tarrieth he no longer,
Sayeth " I am beaten back, for all my big meinie,
And there been killed of the Scots I know not how many."
Then the Scottish king full nigh his wit wanteth,
And said: " On who was thou matched, man, by the sooth?"
And he promised him pertly they passed not a thousand.
" Ye been cowards," quod the king, " Care mote ye happen!