And cruellest poison sheds into the soul,
Foolish desire of praise and patriot love.
“She follows hard the footsteps of a youth
Like shade of slaughtered foe, sometimes reveals
Herself in midst of banquets, mixing blood
In cups of joy. I have heard the song—too well,
Alas! Tis done, ’tis done! I know thee, traitor!
Thou winnest! War! what triumph for a poet!
Give to me wine; now my designs are working.
“I know the song’s end. No! I’ll sing another.