“No, no, Uncle Stanley; I’ll sing anything you wish,” she said, but when he asked for the second Song in Cymbeline, her brows contracted.
“Must you have that one? Won’t the first song do instead?”
“I’d rather have the other. Only the last two verses, for I see you are tired.”
She sat down at the piano and played the preliminary chords. I had never heard the air, possibly it was an unusual setting.
“Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must,
Consign to thee, and come to dust.”