Can she excuse my wrongs, for 4 voices & lute (First Book of Songs)

These fine Elizabethan lines swirl through actual smoke rings born of my virtual pipe and blown from my melancholy lips. Were I welcome in her court, indeed would I kiss the queen. But instead I smoke alone listening to the lyrical lutenist and praying for mercy. My virtual pipe is well-formed of whitest clay, fired in the kiln of sorrow and lit with the smoldering taper of desire. It balances gently in my sinful hand, sitting here at this serene and sequestered table of ideals, hailing my fondest memories as they disappear in rising puffs of tobacco haze.

The world passes by outside the window - they are not yet worthy to know the great DOWLAND but I hope one day they may be thusly blessed. Soon I will depart for the New World. Adieu, my dearest loves.