Shall I compose an elegy on thy death,
Or a sanguine lyric from mine tulip’s cud,
Milord --- may fall like mild dew on wreath
Of the claret buds to nip in the bud;
The love, the sweetest love of a crown-prince!
The greatest king, ah, killed the fated calf!
Shall I compose an elegy, when I mince –
And cut the ‘feet’ in syllables, one and half,
Two hundred beads the hermit tells and takes
The chaplet of his rosary in his hand:
A tragedy of the weaker-vessel make
The epilogue, the moon-lit night, the sand;
On shivering throne of marble sits the kings,
Milord – and ‘all’s well that ends well’ doth sing.