The duchess, at the mirror, gilded, a wooden hairbrush in her delicate hand.
‘I am in love with a memory,’ she says, her maid pressing a ruby gown in the corner of the room,
‘I miss his ghost.’
‘Think not of this ghost, madam,’ says the maid, ‘for we all have ghosts of our own,
‘And ‘tis by our choosing that they haunt us, for the dead are wont to sleep.’
‘Tarry not, young maid,’ pips the duchess. ‘The dead must be awoken,
‘For what person should not want to live again?’
‘Ay, the dead are wont to sleep, madam. We must needs leave them be,
‘They have died by God or Nature’s grace, we must needs leave them be.
‘Nor would they be the same upon awakening, no, no, we must needs leave them be.’
