The moon is a waxing crescent, celebrating the new rule.

Under both, a goodman delver digs.

He stops for a moment, and looks around.

Night covers the field like dust covers a coffin.

His lamp is below a thousand others.

‘Tis bitter cold, yet he still reflects on the events up in the castle.

Four graves to dig.

Four houses to make.

To be theirs till doomsday.

He had seen all four occupants.

He had talked to one.

He had stood over there, holding the skull

That had been evicted from its own home

And now sat watching him, its lower jaw replaced by a crawling worm.

In nine or ten years, might it be joined

By the Prince of Denmark, overthrown by a gentleman?

This one returns to holding up Adam’s profession.