Chapter IV

Of that poor captive, too contemned, I speak,--his doom you might deplore-- In Venus' galliot shell condemned To strain for life the heavy oar. Through thee, no longer as of yore, He tames the unmanageable steed, With curb of gold his pride restrains, Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins Torments him into speed.

V.

Not now he wields, for thy sweet sake, The sword in his accomplished hand; Nor grapples like a poisonous snake, The wrestler on the yellow sand: The old heroic harp his hand Consults not now; it can but kiss The amorous lute's dissolving strings. Which murmur forth a thousand things Of banishment from bliss.