A cloak must shear from the slaughter’d deer,
To keep the cold away.”—
“O Richard! if my brother died,
’Twas but a fatal chance;
For darkling[245] was the battle tried,
And fortune sped the lance.
“If pall and vair[246] no more I wear,
Nor thou the crimson sheen,
As warm, we’ll say, is the russet[247] gray,
As gay the forest-green.[248]