When thus he met his mother s view, She had the passion of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. And, last, you fix d a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe er it be, it seems to me, Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.