Now swelling high with proud disdain,
He scorns his meek, his peaceful train;
A thousand wives the monarch claims,
And seizes all their fairest dames;
A thousand slaves attend his will,
A thousand nests his treasures fill;
None for themselves eat, sleep, or love,
’Tis all the King’s—imperial Dove!
Too noble grown for common food,
He longs to taste of pigeon’s blood;