It Is He Whose Loss Is Laughter When He Counts The Wager Worth!

” A voice is in the mountains, in the mountains! And I know/That voice that shook our palaces four Hundred years ago!/ It is he that saith  not kismet, it is he that knows not fate;/It is Raymond, it is Richard, it is Godfrey at the gate!/It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth:/ Set down your foot upon him,  that our peace be on  the Earth!”

Thus speaks Mahound in Chesterton’s great poem Lepanto,  about the eponymous naval battle in the 16th Century that marked the end of Muslim sea power. (Oh and also disposed of a lot of the Ottomans’ wealth, since they had it on board with them, being  too backward to engage in banking which their foes had  been doing ever since the Crusades…win-win!)

“Don John of Austria is girt  and going forth !”  We have, by coincidence(?), our own Don John, and I anticipate that if he goes to the House to deliver SOTU,  the newly elected Muslim females and their  useful infidels will lead a desperate, Lepanto-like assault on him.   Really.  Everybody made fun of Pelosi for citing security concerns, but :

 what makes us think she was talking about exterior threats?

The bloodthirsty sword-maidens   of the Crescent, Omar and Tlaib, and their fair-haired  Janissaries like Gillibrand, are quite enough to keep me awake at night!

Pelosi fears them. Why else put Omar, “Israel has hypnotized the world,” , supporter of BDS, on the Foreign Relations Committee?

I reckon Lepanto, like all pivotal battles, was, in retrospect, “a very near-run thing”, as Wellington mused about Waterloo.

Will our Don John sail into the hostile seas of the Demoncrat House?

I will be watching in hope and fear!–and:

Dieu le veult! 


2 thoughts on “It Is He Whose Loss Is Laughter When He Counts The Wager Worth!”

  1. King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
    (Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
    The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
    And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
    He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
    He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
    And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
    Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
    And death is in the phial, and the end of noble work,
    But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.


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