Till e'en the flattered gods be tempted here
In marble fair to wait on mortal eyes,
And genius roam in generation free,
Breathing the constant good of mind aspiring,
Till not a clod, be it or earth or human,
But knows a smile to make itself more fair.
How should it grieve thee then to see the pomp
Of one, sole, only man heave with the weight
Of all the state, and wear in barren pride
The fertile beauty of his golden isle?