Against your eyes and your lips so red,
Nay, but such thoughts are a twice-told tale,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
ENVOI.
Time, wilt thou never let me forget
Those perished days till I'm cased in lead?
Folly to dream with such vague regret,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
"The style is Villon, I see," observed Beaumont, when the poet ended.
"It's more than the genius is," muttered Dick, who cherished a deadly hatred of Ferdinand's poetry.