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'T is now the very pregnant cusp of fate
Where all hangs poised upon a narrow pin;
One word, one deed, to set the tale a-spin,
For want of which, 't will dwindle and stagnate.
What news? what news? we wonder and we wait,
Till, starved of clues, with nowhere to begin,
The coffee cools, the milk acquires a skin,
And we, we turn elsewhere, our lusts to sate.
Say, vile Unknown, what hast thou done with Vid?
Where doth he lie, in instance or in shard?
Say what was done to him, or what he did?
Beware too neat a plan, too close a guard.
Our souls are scarred, our patience thin: beware.
When nothing can be done, 't is hard to care.
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