What time we are set from our land apart,
For pain of passion and hunger of heart,
Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen,
Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine.
(Variation: An exile from home—)
Whether with him whose head
Of gods is honored,
With song made splendent in the sight of men—
Whose heart most sweetly stout,
From ravishing France cast out,