He trembles with a sad sickness.
Go away, he said weakly; let me be, bird.
The king has lost his nightingale.
She once sang her sirenic song to me,
by the ledge upon which you pirch, bird;
Your kingdom is failing, like you, king…
What inspiration have I, without her;
What is there left but these falling ruins?
Do you assume you would ever take her place, bird?
To enchant my heart and mind as she once did – Leave bird!
What makes you think we have come to replace you singer;
so dependent on the musick of your nightingale,
that you become sickly and lost without her;
Do you not know Caladrius when you see Her, you fool?
What are you but a pale imitation, do you believe you fool me; Go!
We have not come to sing for you, king.
We looked upon the king’s sickly face, and flew away.
-Chloe-
352:O9A
WSA
