Ernesto the Deer

Mew’d in this hall, mine eyes do vigils keep,

The Porter sighs, "Shall this ne’er find a close?"

I watch his soul through trembling terrors creep,

"Are all but loops?" his tardy wisdom shows.

"’Twas ever thus," I mock his shallow breath,

While wine and blood in kindred currents run;

The truth doth break and rob him of his rest,

That masks must dance where shadows are undone.

They cannot burst the heavy iron chain,

Fast-bound to stone and this revolving pain.