Brother and Master, we are wed with woe.
Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hovers
About the head of us thy mournful lovers.
Uncomforted and sick with pain we go,
Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow.
The London lights flare on the chattering street,
Young men and maidens love and dance and die;
Wine flows, and perfumes float up to the sky.
Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet,
Now thou art still—mouth, hands and weary feet.