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 honorèd
With song made splendent in the sight of men
Whose heart most sweetly stout,
From ravished France cast out,
Bring firstly hers, was hers most wholly then—