Let me be raised to your deserted throne,
And call your countless subjects all my own.
Then let the mirth, they levell'd once at thee,
Fall, if it will, with tenfold force on me.
If all will laugh at me, who laugh'd at you,
The frowns of fortune I no more shall rue;
Nay, with such temper would I bear their jeers,
I could endure them for a hundred years.
Moore. Life's ebbing fast; my sands are nearly run;
But you shall have what you request, my son!