Convinced that he had barred the plague,
Phantasms filled his halls.
In colored chambers shadows played
Upon Prospero’s walls.
With standing room the distance there,
The scourge they thought was stayed,
But death it wore a mask as well,
And there it did parade.
Their reveling, a cruel charade
With sickness so declared.
Fear had formed their masquerade.
Death was not so impaired.