The pointed feature travelled o'er the delf,
Greasing its tip, but bone or bread found none.
Wherefore Sir Tray abode still dinnerless,
Licking his paws beneath the spinning-wheel,
And meditating much on savoury meats."
The hypercritical might object that, inasmuch as the dame greased the tip of her nose whilst peering into the recesses of her store-chamber, that some small rest of edibles was there, but the poem hurries on to its tragical climax, and carries the reader breathless past such trivial objections as these.
The dame passes out, and swiftly down the streets of Camelot, where she seeks, and finds, the needed bread, and hastens back—but all too late, alas! for Sir Tray lay prone upon the hearth, and neither breathed nor stirred:—
"Dead?" said the Dame, while louder wailed Elaine;
"I see," she said, "thy fasts were all too long,
Thy commons all too short, which shortened thus