O luckless maid! such beauteous
blush with modest blandishments
did'st flash to woo a Prince
o'erthrown, in madness' grasp!
Still-born, ne'er meant to flourish,
true love was the hapless prey,
Polonius lay cold, extinguish'd
in the Dane's misguided sway.
It drove thee mindless, to a frenzy,
death thy only destination,
borne by rippling river's eddy
to thy final resting place.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe