You to the city back, and take your fill
Of festival, and all that with the time’s,
And your own youth’s, triumphant temper chimes;
Leaving me here alone to mine; until
Yon golden idol reaching overhead,
Dragg’d from his height, and bleeding out his fires
Along the threshold of the west, expires,
And drops into the sea’s sepulchral lead.
Eusebio. Nay, sir, think once again, and go with us,
Or, if you will, without us; only, go;