"Lot 65: John Keats to Fanny Brawne A beauty, gentlemen, and in the best Condition. Four leaves, scarcely pressed. What am I bid? Five hundred ... Five ... Come on. Who'll make it Six? Six hundred.... "( Pale and drawn, I dreamed forever in a sweet unrest Of your warm, lucent, million-pleasured breast) "Six hundred ... Now Six fifty ... Are you done?" "Seven ... A half ... Did I hear eight? ... Eight ... Eight ... Who'll make it Nine?" ( Would that I could survive The horrors of a brutal world. I hate All men and women, saving one, alive.) "Nine fifty ... Going ... Sorry, sir; too late. Sold to this party for Nine sixty five." |