Jos.‍Alas!

That bitter laugh!

Wer.‍Who would read in this form

The high soul of the son of a long line?

Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands?

Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride

Of rank and ancestry? In this worn cheek

And famine-hollowed brow, the Lord of halls

Which daily feast a thousand vassals?

Jos.‍You120