I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food:
It was not that ’twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter’s fare, 130
And for the like had little care:
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captives’ tears
Have moisten’d many a thousand years, 135