Naught has survived save pale-green gooseberries,
The food in fools, of fools, who such desire.
God wot, no lack have we of fooleries—
I prithee put fresh coals upon the fire.
The burden of bad harvests. For the gods,
Who change the springing corn from green to red,
Have scourged us for our sins with many rods,
And left our grain and oil ungarnerèd.
The market-men heap ashes on their head,
And cry aloud and rend their best attire;