Your arras, that's a dicey thing.
It keeps the damp away, the chill
old ghosts convey. A curtain ring
moves by no wind and then hangs still,
though spirits pass on either hand.
A toast, a toast. A rheumy dude
is run through unannounced, unplanned,
helped on into his desuetude.
Outside the sky in winkled shades
promises much, delivers few
from evil. Here be younger blades
who row, who row, the sort of crew
no castle keeper does without.
The Prince himself prefers to doubt.