Thou, who the marrow of the tale wouldst win!
Divorce thy heart from this old Wayside Inn,
Which hath seen many like to thee and me
But with none resteth; whatsoe'er thou be—
King or attendant—it will outstay thee,
For be thou drudge, or lord of crown and throne,
Thou hast to pack thy baggage and be gone.
The sky will melt thee, though of iron mould,
And favour thee no more when thou art old;
So when the charming Cypress bendeth low,
And when the dark Narcissi overflow,
When cheeks of cercis take a saffron hue,
And he is grave anon that erst was gay,
Then, since souls slumber not as bodies do,
Bide not alone, thy mates are on their way.
Be thou a monarch or of subject birth
Thou'lt have no dwelling-place save darksome earth.
Where are the chieftains with their crowns and thrones,
The cavaliers of fortune ever bright?