 | Peter Faultless to his brother Simon
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XIV.
Then Mathew to his umber'd cheek,
Acquainted long with sun and wind,
Press'd drooping Mary's forehead meek;
And, “Bride!” he said, “now, now a treat!
(Nay, drive the mourner from thy mind!)
After the Epic, somewhat long,
Of our judicious man of song,
(Thy William's friend, also a prophet
That weeping love would soon tire of it,)
Give us a ballad short and sweet,
And, if more gay than sad, no worse;
Sadness—like dulness—is a curse.”
| Peter Faultless to his brother Simon
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