Or off to the wars or a monastery;
Or toil till he deaden his heart's hard pain;
Or drink and forget it and finally bury.
I was his page. And often we fared
Through the Clare demesne, in autumn, hawking—
If the Baron had known, how they would have glared,
'Neath their bushy brows, those eyes of mocking!—
That last of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean—
And growling some six of his henchmen lean
To mount and after this Clifford and hang