I will not heed the message which you bring:
That lovely lady gave her cloak to us,
And who'd believe she'd give away a thing
And ask it back again?—‘ tis fabulous!
My parting from her gave me cause to grieve,
For she, that I was poor, had misty eyes;
If some Archangel blew it I'd believe
The message which you bring, not otherwise.
I do not say this just to make a joke,
Nor would I rob her, but,‘ tis verity,
So long as I could swagger in a cloak
I never cared how bad my luck could be.
That lady, all perfection, knows the sting
Of poverty was thrust deep into me:
I do n't believe she'd do this kind of thing,
Or treat a poet less than daintily.