I06 
THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. 
 
ISSA 
 
Yes, lad, yes.  
— Tinged through with many-coloured bitterness !  
For as I lay this night of hateful heat,  
The blow-flies buzzing, the eternal bleat  
Of strayed sheep, the intense malefic hum  
Of the accurst mosquito, the far drum  
Of the winged beetle, the reiterate stings  
Of fouler vermin, the hot breath that brings  
The sunset’s garlic to the midnight’s rose,  
The red whore’s writhings, clutches swift to close  
On this worn limb, exact the woman-debt  
To the last mite, the cold grey glutinous sweat 
— These things, I say, assailed me, bade me pause  
Praising the goodness of the great First Cause. 
 
JOHN 
 
Yet all we know His vast benevolence. 
 
ISSA 
 
Thou hast religion, but no common sense.  
The cud of wisdom is not duly chewed  
When whoredom’s whittled with a platitude.