Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/235

 "Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads: Welcome, fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads!

"You are bones, and what of that? Every face, however full, Padded round with flesh and fat, Is but modell'd on a skull.

"Death is king, and Vivat Rex! Tread a measure on the stones, Madam—if I know your sex, From the fashion of your bones.

"No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye—nor yet your lip: All the more do I admire Joints of cunning workmanship.