That has no more than I expected done.
If as frail mortals you, my Friends, appear,
I look’d for no angelic beings here,
For none that riches spurn’d as idle pelf,
Or served another as he served himself.
Deceived no longer, let us all forgive;
I’m old, but yet a tedious time may live. 1040
This dark complexion India’s suns bestow,
These shrivell’d looks to years of care I owe;
But no disease ensures my early doom—