THE BLUE DWARF. 
I05 
ISSA 
 
Undone me quite, 
Nagged me with sordid greediness all night,  
Greed for my gold, my person — all I have.  
Saith not the prophet :  “ Cruel as the grave ” ? 
That grinning mask, that musk-rat, hath enriched  
Her rags by every inch of me that itched ;  
And for one itch hath planted me another,  
The “ friend that sticketh closer than a brother ”.  
Ten groans of mine for every grin of hers !  
What saith the prophet ? — “ Whited sepulchres ! ” 
 
JOHN 
 
Nay, Lord, the phrase unique is all thine own. 
 
ISSA 
 
Then write it down, an nothing less atone.  
And add — of all the itches that breed bile  
No itch beats the papyrus and the style. 
 
JOHN 
 
Hast thou no love for me, Lord ?