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The Blue Poetry Book
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ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST’S NATIVITY
This is the month, and this the happy mornWherein the Son of heav’n’s eternal kingOf wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did sing,That He our deadly forfeit should release,And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of MajestyWherewith He wont at Heav’n’s high council-tableTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity,He laid aside; and here with us to be,Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.Say, heav’nly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,To welcome Him to this His new abode,Now while the heav’n by the sun’s team untrod,Hath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?See how from far, upon the eastern roadThe star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,And lay it lowly at His blessèd feet;Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the angel quire,From out His secret altar touch’d with hallow’d fire.THE HYMNIt was the winter wildWhile the heav’n-born ChildAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in awe to HimHad doff’d her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathise:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.Only with speeches fairShe woos the gentle airTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow,And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinful blame,The saintly veil of maiden white to throw,Confounded that her Maker’s eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.But He, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-ey’d Peace;She crown’d with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere,His ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.No war, or battle’s soundWas heard the world around:The idle spear and shield were high up hung,The hookèd chariot stoodUnstain’d with hostile blood,The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng,And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sov’reign Lord was by.But peaceful was the night,Wherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began:The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kist,Whispering new joys to the mild oceàn,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.The stars with deep amaze,Stand fix’d in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence,And will not take their flight,For all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn’d them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glow,Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferior flameThe new-enlighten’d world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThan his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.The shepherds on the lawn,Or ere the point of dawn,Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thenThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greet,As never was by mortal finger strook,Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringèd noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took:The air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.Nature that heard such sound,Beneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia’s seat, the airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was done,And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all heav’n and earth in happier union.At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular light,That with long beams the shamefac’d night array’d;The helmèd Cherubim,And sworded Seraphim,Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display’d,Harping in loud and solemn quire,With unexpressive notes to Heaven’s new-born Heir.Such music (as ’tis said)Before was never made,But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,While the Creator greatHis constellations set,And the well-balanc’d world on hinges hung,Ana cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the welt’ring waves their oozy channel keep,Ring out, ye crystal spheres,Once bless our human ears,If ye have power to touch our senses so;And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time,And let the bass of Heav’n’s deep organ blow;And with your nine-fold harmonyMake up full consort to th’ angelic symphony.For if such holy songInwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold,And speckled VanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mouldAnd Hell itself will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orb’d in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will set between,Throned in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering:And Heav’n, as at some festival,Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.But wisest Fate says, No,This must not yet be so,The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy,That on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorify;Yet first to those ychain’d in sleep,The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,With such a horrid clangAs on mount Sinai rang,While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:The aged Earth aghast,With terror of that blast,Shall from the surface to the centre shake;When at the world’s last session,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe old Dragon under groundIn straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,And wroth to see his kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.The oracles are dumb,No voice or hideous humRuns thro’ the archèd roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance or breathèd spellInspires the pale-ey’d priest from the prophetic cell.The lonely mountains o’er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring and daleEdg’d with poplar pale,The parting Genius is with sighing sent;With flow’r-inwoven tresses tornThe Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.In consecrated earth,And on the holy hearth,The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;In urns, and altars round,A drear and dying soundAffrights the Flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.Peor and BaälimForsake their temples dim,With that twice-batter’d god of Palestine;And moonèd Ashtaroth,Heaven’s queen and mother both,Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine;The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn.In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.And sullen Moloch fled,Hath left in shadows dreadHis burning idol all of blackest hue;In vain with cymbals’ ringThey call the grisly king,In dismal dance about the furnace blue:The brutish gods of Nile as fast,Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove or green,Trampling the unshow’r’d grass with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest,Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud;In vain with timbrell’d anthems darkThe sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worship’d ark.He feels from Juda’s landThe dreaded infant’s hand,The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Not all the gods beside,Longer dare abide,Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.So, when the sun in bed,Curtain’d with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to th’ infernal jail,Each fetter’d ghost slips to his several grave;And the yellow-skirted FayesFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.But see the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest;Time is, our tedious song should here have ending;Heav’n’s youngest teemèd starHath fix’d her polish’d car,Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;And all about the courtly stableBright-harness’d Angels sit in order serviceable.J. Milton.WINTER
In a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy Tree,Thy branches ne’er rememberTheir green felicity:The north cannot undo them,With a sleety whistle through them;Nor frozen thawings glue themFrom budding at the prime.In a drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy Brook,Thy bubblings ne’er rememberApollo’s summer look;But with a sweet forgetting,They stay their crystal fretting,Never, never pettingAbout the frozen time.Ah, would ’twere so with manyA gentle girl and boy!But were there ever anyWrith’d not at passèd joy?To know the change and feel it,When there is none to heal it,Nor numbèd sense to steal it,Was never said in rhyme.J. Keats.CHRISTABEL
‘Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awakened the crowing cock!Tu – whit! – Tu – whoo!And hark, again! the crowing cock,How drowsily it crew.Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,Hath a toothless mastiff bitchFrom her kennel beneath the rockMaketh answer to the clock,Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;Ever and aye, by shine and shower,Sixteen short howls, not over loud:Some say, she sees my lady’s shroud.Is the night chilly and dark?The night is chilly, but not dark.The thin gray cloud is spread on high,It covers but not hides the sky.The moon is behind, and at the full;And yet she looks both small and dull.The night is chill, the cloud is gray:‘Tis a month before the month of May,And the Spring comes slowly up this way.The lovely lady, Christabel,Whom her father loves so well,What makes her in the wood so late,A furlong from the castle gate?She had dreams all yesternightOf her own betrothed knight;And she in the midnight wood will prayFor the weal of her lover that’s far away.She stole along, she nothing spoke,The sighs she heaved were soft and low,And naught was green upon the oak,But moss and rarest misletoe;She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,And in silence prayeth she.The lady sprang up suddenly,The lovely lady, Christabel!It moaned as near, as near can be,But what it is, she cannot tell. —On the other side it seems to be,Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.The night is chill; the forest bare;Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?There is not wind enough in the airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady’s cheek —There is not wind enough to twirlThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up to the sky.Hush, beating heart of Christabel!Jesu, Maria, shield her well!She folded her arms beneath her cloak,And stole to the other side of the oak.What sees she there?There she sees a damsel bright,Drest in a silken robe of white,That shadowy in the moonlight shone:The neck that made that white robe wan,Her stately neck, and arms were bare:Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were;And wildly glittered here and thereThe gems entangled in her hair.I guess, ’twas frightful there to seeA lady so richly clad as she —Beautiful exceedingly!Mary mother, save me now!(Said Christabel), And who art thou?The lady strange made answer meet,And her voice was faint and sweet: —Have pity on my sore distress,I scarce can speak for weariness.Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear,Said Christabel, How camest thou here?And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweetDid thus pursue her answer meet: —My sire is of a noble line,And my name is Geraldine:Five warriors seized me yestermorn,Me, even me, a maid forlorn:They choked my cries with force and fright,And tied me on a palfrey white.The palfrey was as fleet as wind,And they rode furiously behind.They spurred amain, their steeds were white;And once we crossed the shade of night.As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,I have no thought what men they be;Nor do I know how long it is(For I have lain entranced I wis)Since one, the tallest of the five,Took me from the palfrey’s back,A weary woman, scarce alive.Some muttered words his comrades spoke:He placed me underneath this oak,He swore they would return with hasteWhither they went I cannot tell —I thought I heard, some minutes past,Sounds as of a castle bell.Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she),And help a wretched maid to flee.Then Christabel stretched forth her handAnd comforted fair Geraldine:O well bright dame may you commandThe service of Sir Leoline;And gladly our stout chivalryWill he send forth and friends withalTo guide and guard you safe and freeHome to your noble father’s hall.She rose: and forth with steps they passedThat strove to be, and were not, fast.Her gracious stars the lady blest,And thus spake on sweet Christabel;All our household are at rest,The hall as silent as the cell,Sir Leoline is weak in healthAnd may not well awakened be,But we will move as if in stealth;And I beseech your courtesyThis night, to share your couch with me.They crossed the moat, and ChristabelTook the key that fitted well;A little door she opened straight,All in the middle of the gate;The gate that was ironed within and without,Where an army in battle-array had marched out.The lady sank, belike through pain,And Christabel with might and mainLifted her up, a weary weight,Over the threshold of the gate:Then the lady rose again,And moved, as she were not in pain.So free from danger, free from fear,They crossed the court: right glad they were.And Christabel devoutly criedTo the lady by her side,Praise we the Virgin all divineWho hath rescued thee from thy distress!Alas, alas! said Geraldine,I cannot speak for weariness.So free from danger, free from fear,They crossed the court: right glad they were.Outside her kennel, the mastiff oldLay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.The mastiff old did not awake,Yet she an angry moan did make!And what can ail the mastiff bitch?Never till now she uttered yellBeneath the eye of Christabel.Perhaps it is the owlet’s scritch:For what can ail the mastiff bitch?They passed the hall, that echoes still,Pass as lightly as you will!The brands were flat, the brands were dying,Amid their own white ashes lying;But when the lady passed, there cameA tongue of light, a fit of flame;And Christabel saw the lady’s eye,And nothing else saw she thereby,Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tallWhich hung in a murky old niche in the wall.O softly tread, said Christabel,My father seldom sleepeth well.Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,And jealous of the listening airThey steal their way from stair to stair,Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,And now they pass the Baron’s room.As still as death with stifled breath!And now have reached her chamber door;And now doth Geraldine press downThe rushes of the chamber floor.The moon shines dim in the open air,And not a moonbeam enters here.But they without its light can seeThe chamber carved so curiously,Carved with figures strange and sweet,All made out of the carver’s brain,For a lady’s chamber meet:The lamp with twofold silver chainIs fastened to an angel’s feet.The silver lamp burns dead and dim;But Christabel the lamp will trim.She trimm’d the lamp, and made it bright,And left it swinging to and fro,While Geraldine, in wretched plight,Sank down upon the floor below.‘O weary lady, Geraldine,I pray you, drink this cordial wine!It is a wine of virtuous powers;My mother made it of wild flowers.’‘And will your mother pity me,Who am a maiden most forlorn?’Christabel answered – ‘Woe is me!She died the hour that I was born.I have heard the grey-hair’d friar tell,How on her death-bed she did say,That she should hear the castle-bellStrike twelve upon my wedding-day.O mother dear! that thou wert here!’‘I would,’ said Geraldine, ‘she were!’But soon with altered voice, said she —‘Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!I have power to bid thee flee.’Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?Why stares she with unsettled eye?Can she the bodiless dead espy?And why with hollow voice cries she,‘Off, woman, off! this hour is mine —Though thou her guardian spirit be,Off, woman, off! ’tis given to me.’Then Christabel knelt by the lady’s side,And raised to heaven her eyes so blue —‘Alas!’ said she, ‘this ghastly ride —Dear lady! it hath ’wilder’d you!The lady wiped her moist cold brow,And faintly said, ‘’Tis over now!’Again the wild-flower wine she drank:Her fair large eyes ’gan glitter bright,And from the floor whereon she sank,The lofty lady stood upright:She was most beautiful to see,Like a lady of a far countrèe.And thus the lofty lady spake —‘All they who live in the upper sky,Do love you, holy Christabel!And you love them, and for their sakeAnd for the good which me befell,Even I in my degree will try,Fair maiden, to requite you well.But now unrobe yourself; for IMust pray, ere yet in bed I lie.’Quoth Christabel, ‘So let it be!’And as the lady bade, did she.Her gentle limbs did she undress,And lay down in her loveliness.But through her brain of weal and woeSo many thoughts moved to and fro,That vain it were her lids to close;So half-way from the bed she rose,And on her elbow did reclineTo look at the lady Geraldine.Beneath the lamp the lady bow’d,And slowly roll’d her eyes around;Then drawing in her breath aloudLike one that shudder’d, she unboundThe cincture from beneath her breast:Her silken robe, and inner vest,Dropt to her feet, and full in view,Behold! her bosom and half her side —A sight to dream of, not to tell!O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;Ah! what a stricken look was hers!Deep from within she seems half-wayTo lift some weight with sick assay,And eyes the maid and seeks delay;Then suddenly, as one defied,Collects herself in scorn and pride,And lay down by the maiden’s side! —And in her arms the maid she took,Ah well-a-day!And with low voice and doleful lookThese words did say:‘In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;But vainly thou warrest,For this is alone inThy power to declare,That in the dim forestThou heard’st a low moaning,And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.’S. T. Coleridge.YARROW UNVISITED
1803From Stirling Castle we had seenThe mazy Forth unravelled;Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,And with the Tweed had travell’d;And when we came to Clovenford,Then said my ‘winsome Marrow,’‘Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,And see the Braes of Yarrow.’‘Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,Who have been buying, selling,Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;Each maiden to her dwelling!On Yarrow’s banks let herons feed,Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!But we will downward with the Tweed,Nor turn aside to Yarrow.‘There’s Gala Water, Leader Haughs,Both lying right before us;And Dryburgh, where with chiming TweedThe lintwhites sing in chorus;There’s pleasant Teviot-dale, a landMade blythe with plough and harrow:Why throw away a needful dayTo go in search of Yarrow?‘What’s Yarrow but a river bare,That glides the dark hills under?There are a thousand such elsewhereAs worthy of your wonder.’– Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;My true-love sigh’d for sorrow,And looked me in the face, to thinkI thus could speak of Yarrow!‘Oh! green,’ said I, ‘are Yarrow’s holms,And sweet is Yarrow flowing!Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,But we will leave it growing.O’er hilly path, and open strath,We’ll wander Scotland thorough;But, though so near, we will not turnInto the dale of Yarrow.‘Let beeves and home-bred kine partakeThe sweets of Burn-Mill meadow;The swan on still Saint Mary’s LakeFloat double, swan and shadow!We will not see them; will not go,To-day, nor yet to-morrow;Enough if in our hearts we knowThere’s such a place as Yarrow.‘Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!It must, or we shall rue it:We have a vision of our own;Ah! why should we undo it?The treasured dreams of times long past,We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!For when we’re there, although ’tis fair,’Twill be another Yarrow!‘If care with freezing years should come,And wandering seem but folly, —Should we be loth to stir from home,And yet be melancholy;Should life be dull, and spirits low,’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,That earth has something yet to show,The bonny Holms of Yarrow!’W. Wordsworth.YARROW VISITED
September 1814And is this – Yarrow? – This the StreamOf which my fancy cherished,So faithfully, a waking dream,An image that hath perished?O that some minstrel’s harp were near,To utter notes of gladness,And chase this silence from the air,That fills my heart with sadness!Yet why? – a silvery current flowsWith uncontroll’d meanderings;Nor have these eyes by greener hillsBeen soothed, in all my wanderings.And, through her depths, Saint Mary’s LakeIs visibly delighted;For not a feature of those hillsIs in the mirror slighted.A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow Vale,Save where that pearly whitenessIs round the rising sun diffused,A tender hazy brightness;Mild dawn of promise! that excludesAll profitless dejection;Though not unwilling here to admitA pensive recollection.Where was it that the famous FlowerOf Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?His bed perchance was yon smooth moundOn which the herd is feeding:And haply from this crystal pool,Now peaceful as the morning.The Water-wraith ascended thrice —And gave his doleful warning.Delicious is the Lay that singsThe haunts of happy lovers,The path that leads them to the grove,The leafy grove that covers:And pity sanctifies the verseThat paints, by strength of sorrow,The unconquerable strength of love;Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!But thou that didst appear so fairTo fond imagination,Dost rival in the light of dayHer delicate creation:Meek loveliness is round thee spread,A softness still and holy;The grace of forest charms decayed,And pastoral melancholy.That region left, the vale unfoldsRich groves of lofty stature,With Yarrow winding through the pompOf cultivated Nature;And rising from those lofty groves,Behold a ruin hoary!The shattered front of Newark’s Towers,Renowned in Border story.Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom,For sportive youth to stray in,For manhood to enjoy his strength;And age to wear away in!Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,A covert for protectionOf studious ease and generous cares,And every chaste affection!How sweet on this autumnal dayThe wild-wood fruits to gather,And on my true-love’s forehead plantA crest of blooming heather!And what if I enwreathed my own?’Twere no offence to reason;The sober hills thus deck their browsTo meet the wintry season.I see – but not by sight alone,Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;A ray of Fancy still survives —Her sunshine plays upon thee!Thy ever-youthful waters keepA course of lively pleasure;And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,Accordant to the measure.The vapours linger round the heights,They melt, and soon must vanish;One hour is theirs, nor more is mine —Sad thought, which I would banish,But that I know, where’er I go,Thy genuine image, Yarrow!Will dwell with me – to heighten joyAnd cheer my mind in sorrow.W. Wordsworth.SIR HUGH; OR, THE JEW’S DAUGHTER
Yesterday was brave Hallowday,And, above all days of the year,The schoolboys all got leave to play,And little Sir Hugh was there.He kicked the ball with his foot,And kepped it with his knee,And even in at the Jew’s window,He gart the bonnie ba’ flee.Out then came the Jew’s daughter‘Will ye come in and dine?’‘I winna come in and I canna come in,Till I get that ball of mine.‘Throw down that ball to me, maiden,Throw down the ball to me.’‘I winna throw down your ball, Sir Hugh,Till ye come up to me.’She pu’d the apple frae the tree,It was baith red and green,She gave it unto little Sir Hugh,With that his heart did win.She wiled him into ae chamber,She wiled him into twa,She wiled him into the third chamber,And that was warst o’t a’.She took out a little penknife,Hung low down by her gair,She twined this young thing o’ his life,And a word he ne’er spak mair.And first came out the thick, thick blood,And syne came out the thin,And syne came out the bonnie heart’s bloodThere was nae mair within.She laid him on a dressing-table,She dress’d him like a swine,Says, ‘Lie ye there, my bonnie Sir Hugh,Wi’ ye’re apples red and green.’She put him in a case of lead,Says, ‘Lie ye there and sleep;’She threw him into the deep draw-wellWas fifty fathom deep.A schoolboy walking in the garden,Did grievously hear him moan,He ran away to the deep draw-wellAnd on his knee fell down.Says ‘Bonnie Sir Hugh, and pretty Sir Hugh,I pray you speak to me;If you speak to any body in this world,I pray you speak to me.’When bells were rung and mass was sung,And every body went hame,Then every lady had her son,But Lady Helen had nane.She rolled her mantle her about,And sore, sore did she weep;She ran away to the Jew’s castleWhen all were fast asleep.She cries, ‘Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh,I pray you speak to me;If you speak to any body in this world,I pray you speak to me.’‘Lady Helen, if ye want your son,I’ll tell ye where to seek;Lady Helen, if ye want your son,He’s in the well sae deep.’She ran away to the deep draw-well,And she fell down on her knee;Saying, ‘Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh,I pray ye speak to me,If ye speak to any body in the world,I pray ye speak to me.’‘Oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, motherThe well it is wondrous deep,The little penknife sticks in my throat,And I downa to ye speak.‘But lift me out o’ this deep draw-well,And bury me in yon churchyard;Put a Bible at my head,’ he says,‘And a testament at my feet,And pen and ink at every side,And I’ll lie still and sleep.‘And go to the back of Maitland town,Bring me my winding-sheet;For it’s at the back of Maitland townThat you and I sall meet.’O the broom, the bonny, bonny broomThe broom that makes full sore;A woman’s mercy is very little,But a man’s mercy is more.Anonymous.
