"Forgive; 'tis but one short complaint,
One pang I would reveal:
The wretch upon the torturing rack
Is not forbid to feel!
Then laugh,--let merry hearts to-night
Their brightest wreaths entwine:
The flowers that bloom on every breast
Will, withering, fade on mine!"[35]
Many were the bright eyes glittering on him through their long silken
lashes; but Sir John looked downward,--diligently noting something
extraordinary in the disposition of his shoe-roses, or in the tie of his
garter.
"One raven will set another croaking," said Sir George.
"That we may escape a concert so detestable," cried out Buckingham, "let
Sir John Finett follow me, and we will reel with our fair dames, until
cares whirl off like sling-stones."
"And may he that tires first fiddle the witches' jig," said the sapient
king.
A burst of harsh music followed, and Sir John's feebly tinkling strings
were thrown aside. Never had he wished so anxiously for one short hour
of quietness; and right fain he was when the king retired to his
chamber. His duties for that day were over, and he strolled out from the
hot and oppressive atmosphere into a calm quiet moonlight.
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