WHY JESUS WEPT 
3 
That Crowley, ever versatile 
And lord of many a new bad style 
Should still in’s gun have one more cartridge, 
And who Ixtaccihuatl’s smart ridge 
Achieved should still be full of mettle 
To go up Popocatapetl. 
 
As song then chills or aches or burns, 
The metre shall slew round by turns. 
The gross and bestial demand prose. 
(Glance at the page, lass, stop your nose, 
And turn to where short lines proclaim 
That purity has won the game !) 
But stow your prudery, wives and mothers, 
You know as much muck as  —  those others ! 
Your modest homes are dull ; you need me ! 
Don’t let your husbands know ; but — read me ! 
 
 
 
SCENE I 
 
The Poet inducts his matter. 
 
 
I draw no picture of the Fates 
(Recitativo—rhyming 8s) 
Presiding over birth and so on. 
I leave the Gods alone, and go on. 
Sir Percival de Percivale 
Sat in his vast baronial hall