Ungrateful burden—and worse, after all,
Not be licensed to be the people’s thrall!
The Danaids again; who could in truth
Believe that in despite of bridal ruth
Fifty girls, save one, would shed forth a flood,
At their father’s dictate, of kindred blood,
Or, if so, have paid for the deed in Hell
By drawing, in cracked pitchers, from a well?
Myth ill planned; but ponder it he who feeds
Cross-grained diseases of the soul, ill weeds,