Than the cold marble, or the rough trunk lower?

With ardour I embrace, and wait thee lorn.

Yet of my Muse perchance some happier strains

Will me survive, and my sepulchral stone

Will not be left to tell of me alone!

Perhaps my name, which rancour now detains

Proscribed, will yet resound o’er Cuba’s plains,

On the swift trumpet of enduring fame!

Correggio, when he saw his canvas flame

With life, “a painter,” it was his to cry,