Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer”
And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—
“This is the end of every man’s desire!”
Envoy.
Alas, yet liefer on youth’s hither shore
Would I be some poor Player on scant hire
Than king among the old who play no more,—
“This is the end of every man’s desire!”