Have I no weapon-word for thee — some message brief and fierce?
( Have I fought out and done indeed the battle? ) Is there no shot left,
For all thy affectations, lisps, scorns, manifold silliness?
Nor for myself — my own rebellious self in thee?
Down, down, proud gorge!— though choking thee;
Thy bearded throat and high-borne forehead to the gutter;
Crouch low thy neck to eleemosynary gifts.