Sceve, the Saone & 'le sujet surpasse le disant'

If I knew the City where now you are

I'd shed my tears in its Reservoir

As it is, I can but sigh

Thy peignoir perilous else skin to dry

 Midons! As blason is, a rough tongue- thy towel

& as to the Saone, that sad Celt eliding vowel

Peace hath a Prince! now, turning away the meek
Mine the lachrymae with no terroir in your cheek.