I, heardsæligne, hygegeomorne, in woruldrice

'Tis scarcely news that Love was lost for aye in Beauty's maze

Nor a novel excuse, that Faith burnt up in Being's blaze

But strange I ween, by Woe yet nursed
As a Whore is cursed, Son, the Day its Sun obeys!

Envoi-

Midons! So Sorrow's Seven Swords gain a single sheath
My Cordelia, thy Hlaford's blasted heath.