Robert Browning




by Robert Browning


Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.
God must judge the couple! leave them as they are
-- Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory,
And whichever one the guilt's with, to my story.


Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough,
Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now,
Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment,
Heaven with snaky Hell, in torture and entoilment?


Which of them's the culprit, how must he conceive
God's the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve!
'Tis but decent to profess one's self beneath her.
Still, one must not be too much in earnest either.


Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes,
Then go live his life out! life will try his nerves,
When the sky which noticed all, makes no disclosure,
And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.


Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,
Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes.
For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden,
With the sly mute thing beside there for a warden.


What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant to his side,
A leer and lie in every eye on its obsequious hide?
When will come an end of all the mock obeisance,
And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance?


So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man?
Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can.
He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven,
Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven.


All or nothing, stake it! trusts he God or no?
Thus far and no further? further? be it so.
Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses,
Sage provisos, sub-intents, and saving-clauses.


Ah, forgive you bid him? While God's champion lives,
Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why he forgives.
But you must not end my friend ere you begin him;
Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.


Once more -- Will the wronger, at this last of all,
Dare to say I did wrong, rising in his fall?
No? -- Let go, then -- both the fighters to their places --
While I count three, step you back as many paces.


Men And Women
Copyright 1863
Boston: Ticknor And Fields