Thou smilest soft, as one that knoweth well
How heaven and the lower kitchen dwell;
For some songs rise like incense to the dome,
And some, like troubled pilgrimes, hasten home.
This same olde M, from manuscript y-bore,
Hath in its gut more doctrine than its lore:
It singeth not of roses long in May,
But of what meat misliketh mortal clay.
So play it on, sweet dame, nor spare the string;
Let court and chapel hear the ghastly thing.
For many a noble song the world hath sung;
Yet few so boldly spring from chest to tongue.