You made a heaven of earth's grosser air!
And 'twas that day I heard old warriors say
Your lance would dare prick ope the clouds till Mars
Looked forth to combat. Ah, I scarce believe
Our island's easy lap did bear you, and thank
The gods that wealth, whose poison-pampered tooth
Likes best the marrow-sweet of youth, has left
You still a man.
Oc. Truth weeps when lovers talk,
But where is sound more sweet? All that I am