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In real fame, when most humane my deed;
And vainly to the praise of queen aspire,
If, stranger! I permit that mean attire
Beneath the feastful bower. A narrow space
Confines the circle of our destin'd race;
'Tis ours with good the scanty round to grace.
Those who to cruel wrong their state abuse,
Dreaded in life the mutter'd curse pursues;
By death disrobed of all their savage powers,
Then, licensed rage her hateful prey devours.
But he whose inborn worth his acts commend,
Of gentle soul, to human race a friend;
The wretched he relieves diffuse his fame,
And distant tongues extol the patron-name."
"
Princess? (he cried) in vain your bounties flow
On me, confirm'd and obstinate in woe.
When my loved Crete received my final view,
And from my weeping eyes her cliffs withdrew;
These tatter'd weeds (my decent robes resign'd)
I chose, the livery of a woful mind!
Nor will my heart-corroding care abate
With splendid palls, and canopies of state:
Low-couch'd on earth, the gift of sleep I scorn,
And catch the glances of the waking morn.
The delicacy of your courtly train
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