Thy mighty rule on earth hath seen its day:
The race must come to perish, and no cause
But that thou sittest with thy nymphs at play,
While on a Cretan hill thy truant boy
Hath with his pretty mistress turn’d to toy,
And less for pain than love pineth away.’
14
‘Ha! Mistress!’ cried she; ‘Hath my beardless son
Been hunting for himself his lovely game?
Some young Orestiad hath his fancy won?