Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow d marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother s breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter s heart. I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.
Every door is barr d with gold, and opens but to golden keys.
Every gate is throng d with suitors, all the markets overflow. I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman s ground, When the ranks are roll d in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other s heels. I will turn that earlier page. In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.