'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!
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.
My Cordelia, thy Hlaford's blasted heath.
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