17 ACCORDING TO THEIR FOLLY

Ye that made merry through mirthless ages, And jeered in the thick of the knights’ mêlée, And derided all wrangles of sophists and sages, And toasted your toes round an auto-da-fé,— Do ye grieve, in your coffins, now worms assay That motley logic of quip and pun And elvish laughter?—or still do ye say, Whatever ye do there matters to none? Chuckling and shrugging, ye clutched such wages As life allotted; then went your way Into the dark, where no conflict rages, No wrangles follow, no cruelties stray. —Le Glorieux, Armstrong, Patch, Brusquet, And Sommers! rest ye, for jesting is done, And ye need not joke now as yesterday, For whatever ye do there matters to none. And a dream that he found in his tomb assuages The brutish sorrows of Triboulet; And Dagonet sleeps, and no more engages To follow his master in any fray; And Chicot, too, makes his bed of clay— Whither wins never the Gascon sun,— Where baubles and sceptres alike decay, And whatever ye do there matters to none. My prince! it is better to quote than obey The precepts of Solon and Solomon; Yet the world they admonished is larger than they, And whatever ye do there matters to none.