Ne’er false was I, not e’en in thought,
Till this poor heart I touch’d but now,
Within my own mutation wrought.
“‘The youthful Poet’s passion, told
With sadden’d heart and anxious brow,
I scorn’d while yet the Poet lived,
But dead! I yield me to it now.
“‘To death devoted, this weak frame,
To which De Coucy’s heart hath lent
A brief support, shall never more