The King is now forgotten. Many run
For shelter, where strange phrases (strange to me)
Of “perkins,” “meux,” and “barclay,” seem to be
Signs of glad welcome and of social fun.
Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars;
Those, envied, on the roofs, slide down again
Now envying those below, Rheumatic men,
With ague in perspective, curse their stars.
Wives, with their dresses dabbled, mourn the sum
Thus washed away, and wish they had not come.