On Something, That Walks Somewhere
At court I met it, in clothes brave enough
To be a courtier, and looks grave enough
To seem a statesman: as I near it came,
It made me a great face. I asked the name.
‘A lord,’ it cried, ‘buried in flesh and blood,
And such from whom let no man hope least good,
For I will do none; and as little ill,
For I will dare none.’ Good lord, walk dead still.
