I wot not whither they have fared, thus bearing us afar * At speed, and lightly-quipt, the lighter from one love to fly: When starkens night, the birds in brake or branches snugly perched * Wail for our sorrow and announce our hapless destiny: The tongue of their condition saith, 'Alas, alas for woe, * And heavy brunt of parting-blow two lovers must aby': When viewed I separation-cups were filled to the brim * And us with merest sorrow-wine Fate came so fast to ply, I mixed them with becoming share of patience self to excuse, * But Patience for the loss of you her solace doth refuse."