And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;
He had learned from an idle whisper—a whisper not meant for him—
A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart limb.
He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:
’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,
A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum—
He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.
Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,
And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;
He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;