POSTHUMOUS POEMS
Fred.Speak, sir: I
Stand for my mother.
Mas. So you have set him words
To work out, to spell over, each as loud
As any threat the mouth makes like a blow?
Ay, must his father praise him too?
Luc.My lord,
It seems that change can make the face of hope
Grey as his own thin hair; I loved you well,
Put honour on you, which you seemed to wear
With natural apprehension and keen grace
Past blame of any, over praise of me;
Now either my hurt sense is sick to death,
Or I conceive such meaning in your talk
As makes me faint with shame; I would fain be angry;
But shame has left me bare of even will
To seem so angry, and to say this out
With your set eyes so fast upon my face
Grows like shame to me.
Mas.Nathless I believe
Since you shook hands with shame's last messenger
And felt her hand's mark hot along your cheek,
Some years have made it whiter.
Luc.Pardon me!
I know not, Madam, what he speaks.
Mas.Nor you?
I spoke to Tancred's kinswoman, the queen
Stand for my mother.
Mas. So you have set him words
To work out, to spell over, each as loud
As any threat the mouth makes like a blow?
Ay, must his father praise him too?
Luc.My lord,
It seems that change can make the face of hope
Grey as his own thin hair; I loved you well,
Put honour on you, which you seemed to wear
With natural apprehension and keen grace
Past blame of any, over praise of me;
Now either my hurt sense is sick to death,
Or I conceive such meaning in your talk
As makes me faint with shame; I would fain be angry;
But shame has left me bare of even will
To seem so angry, and to say this out
With your set eyes so fast upon my face
Grows like shame to me.
Mas.Nathless I believe
Since you shook hands with shame's last messenger
And felt her hand's mark hot along your cheek,
Some years have made it whiter.
Luc.Pardon me!
I know not, Madam, what he speaks.
Mas.Nor you?
I spoke to Tancred's kinswoman, the queen
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