Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister by Robert Browning

Gr-r-r — there go, my hearts abhorrence! Water your damned flower-pots, do!
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, Gods blood, would not mine kill you!
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose has prior claims —
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? Hell dry you up with its flames!
At the meal we sit together; Salve tibi! I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather, Sort of season, time of year:
Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt;
Whats the Latin name for parsley? Whats the Greek name for Swines Snout?
Whew! Well have our platter burnished, Laid with care on our own shelf!
With a fire-new spoon were furnished, And a goblet for ourself,
Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere tis fit to touch our chaps —
Marked with L. for our initial! (He-he! There his lily snaps!)
Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha, telling stories, Steeping tresses in the tank,
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, — Cant I see his dead eye glow,
Bright as twere a Barbary corsairs? (That is, if hed let it show!)
When he finishes refection, Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise, to my recollection, As do I, in Jesus praise.
I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange-pulp —
In three sips the Arian frustrate; While he drains his at one gulp.
Oh, those melons? If hes able Were to have a feast! so nice!
One goes to the Abbots table, All of us get each a slice.
How go on your flowers? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
Strange! — And I, too, at such trouble, Keep them close-nipped on the sly!
Theres a great text in Galatians, Once you trip on it, entails
Twenty-nine distinct damnations, One sure, if another fails:
If I trip him just a-dying, Sure of heaven as sure as can be,
Spin him round and send him flying Off to hell, a Manichee?
Or, my scrofulous French novel On grey paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belials gripe:
If I double down its pages At the woeful sixteenth print,
When he gathers his greengages, Ope a sieve and slip it in t?
Or, theres Satan! — one might venture Pledge ones soul to him, yet leave
Such a flaw in the indenture As hed miss till, past retrieve,
Blasted lay that rose-acacia Were so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine ...
St, theres Vespers! Plena gratiâ Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r — you swine!

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[w435465]

I did read that somewhere, oh, yes here: metacafe.com/watch/1814171/the­_bishop_orders_his_tomb/

[SuperCartiel]

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[w435465]

@SuperCartiel what do you mean?

[w435465]

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[w435465]

@w435465 @SuperCartiel I did read that somewhere, oh, yes here: metacafe.com/watch/1814171/the­_bishop_orders_his_tomb/

[SuperCartiel]

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