Want ye a mate for millions? I am he.
Glory is mine, and glee-time evermore.
XII.
O men! O masters! O ye kings of grief!
Ye who control the world but not the grave,
What have ye done to make delight so brief,
Ye who have spurn'd the minstrel and the lyre?
I will not say: "Be patient." Ye are brave;
And ye shall guess the pangs of my desire.
XIII.