For the blue-eyed thanes that love it;
But they bend their brows above it,
And forever, to and fro,
’Round the board dull murmurs go:
“It is strange in Elsinore
Since the day King Hamlet died.”
And a swarm of courtiers flit,
New in slashed and satined trim,
With their freshly-fashioned wit
And their littleness of limb,—