the morrice-dance, But in her sea-green kirtle stood at gaze, A timid little creature that was scared By dead men's armor. Nought there suffered change, Those empty shells of valor grew not old, Though something rusty. Would they fright her now Looked she upon them? Held she in her mind—      'T was Spring and loud the mavis piped outside—      The day the Turkish helmet slipped from peg, And clashing on the floor, congealed her blood And sent both hands to terror-smitten eyes, She trembling, ready to yield up the ghost? Right merry was it! Finally he touched On matters nearer, things she had foreboded And this one time must needs lend hearing to, And end so sorry business ere woe came, Like a true maid and honest, as she was. So, tutoring the tremble on her lip And holding back hot tears, she gave reply With such discretion as straight tied his tongue, Albeit he lacked not boldness in discourse:         “Indeed, indeed, sir, you speak but in jest! Lightly, not meaning it, in courtier-way. I have heard said that ladies at the Court—      I judge them not!—have most forgiving ears, And list right willingly to idle words, Listen and smile and never stain a cheek. Yet not such words your father's son should use With me, my father's daughter. You forget      What should most precious be to memory's heart, Love that dared death; and so, farewell.”  Farewell It was in sooth; for after that one time, Though he had fain with passion-breathed vows Besieged that marble citadel her breast, He got no speech of her: she chose her walks; Let only moon and star look on the face That could well risk the candor of the sun; Ran not to lattice at each sound of hoof; By stream or hedge-row plucked no pansies more, Mistrusting Proserpina's cruel fate, Herself up-gathered in Sicilian fields; At chapel—for one needs to chapel go A-Sunday—glanced not either right or left, But with black eyelash wedded to white cheek Knelt there impassive, like the marble girl That at the foot-end of his father's tomb, Inside the chancel where the Wyndhams lay, Through the long years her icy vigil kept. As leaves turn into flame at the frost's touch, So Richard's heart on coldness fed its fire, And burned with surfeit of indifference. All flavor and complexion of content Went out of life; what served once served no more. His hound and falcon ceased to pleasure him; He read—some musty folios there were On shelf—but even in brave Froissart's page, Where, God knows, there be wounds enough, no herb Nor potion found he to purge 

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