My mind was fertile in resorts. I spent the pilgrims' fees on forts,
And settled, for their skill in trade, Venetian slavers at our ports.
Howbeit I trembled lest our main enthusiasm should be for gain.
I stripped myself to work against the working of the money-brain.
And I was glad I passed for mad and single-eyed as Galahad.
I sacrificed in saving Christ the profit that I might have had.
Nothing that I could do availed. My tongue grew bitter, girded, railed.
My labour only builded Me, but not the kingdom. So I failed.
Our Viscounts could but show their gums, while from Aleppo, Hama, Homs,
The foe crept onward like the months, culling our conquests like ripe plums.