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What proud deed of coming fight Bares the blade of yonder knight? Dare I give the colours words,— Ask their music from the chords?

In sooth it was as fair a court As ever in a morn of May, Amid the greenwood's glad resort, Made a perpetual holiday. 'Tis true she was a queen no more, But still her robe the ermine bore; And in her hand, and in her eye, Was that which spoke of courts gone by: For Catherine looked what she had been, At once the beauty and the queen.