To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch mocker, and mad Abbot of Mis-Rule!
For such thou art by day—but all night long
Thou pour’st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain,
As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain—
Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong,
And sighing for thy motley coat again.
Richard Henry Wilde.