Close crouched by the fire, spinning and mumbling o’er
The past, shalt croon my verses, marvelling more
That Ronsard sang thy praise, what time thy bright
First beauty was. Then, hearing thee recite
Such thing, thy drowsy maid, though weary-sore
And nodding off to sleep, shall wake before
My name and thine, with blessings infinite.
I under earth shall be, a soul in vain
Seeking its rest where myrtle shadows play;
Thou by the hearthstone cringe, outworn and blear,