Page 72 - Poetry-Whimsy

And growing dissatisfied, quietly dusted;
Wrote to the monarch: “Dear Sire, I’m busted,
And write to remind you it may be as well
To purchase some secrets I’m anxious to sell.
Yours, B. P. S.: I must not be pursued or
I’ll join the forces of Henry Tudor.”

The fellow, indeed, was a good enough tool
When Richard directed, but simply a fool
With vague, rudimentary notions of evil,
Compared with his master, that pride of the devil.
As a matter of course, he was presently caught,
And straight before Richard the Third was brought.

The king addressed him gently: “Buck,
I’m sorry to hear you’re out of luck.
You merit reward; perhaps there’s some
Reward for you in the world to come,
Where minds are exposed, but mouths are closed—
Headsman!” . . . Buckingham decomposed.

The census of 1485
Found few of his subjects remaining alive.
Toward the end of spring it became the thing,
With ghosts of fashion, to haunt the king:
Till, while in search of another victim,
Richard met Henry Tudor, who licked him,
Stabbed him repeatedly, broke his head,
Married his niece, and reigned in his stead.

Rows of histories—-rows on rows—
Contain King Richard’s life in prose.
Of verse, however, there’s not a line,
Except in Shakspere’s works—and mine.

— Walter D. Robinson (Century Magazine, 1897)

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