GAMBLING AT MONACO <br /> <br />A jewelled kingdom set impregnable <br />In gardens green which front the violet sea, <br />A happy fortress shut and guarded well, <br />And cradled ever on the mountain's knee: <br />Here Monsieur Blanc, sad prince of industry, <br />Has reared the palace which men call his hell: <br />And here in autumn days, when winds blow free, <br />Pleasure shall lead us to sin's citadel. <br /> <br />Alas for vice! Yet, who dares moralize, <br />In the hushed rooms, where fortune reigns alway? <br />Her solemn priest, with chink of coin, replies <br />``Messieurs, faites votre jeu. Le jeu est fait.'' <br />Who dares be wise, lest wisdom's self be vexed? <br />For all who come to preach remain to play. <br />Nay, leave poor vice, say I, her pleasant text, <br />Nor grudge her Heaven in this world with the next.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-idler-s-calendar-twelve-sonnets-for-the-months-october/
