’Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he),
The folk all sing in Arcady.
But how may he find Arcady
Who hath nor youth nor melody?
What, know you not, old man (quoth he)—
Your hair is white, your face is wise—
That Love must kiss that Mortal’s eyes
Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
No gold can buy you entrance there;
But beggared Love may go all bare—