In fair, delightful Cyprus, by the Main,
⁠A lofty, royal seat, Love's dwelling stands:
⁠Thither I went, and gave into his hands
An humble scroll, his clemency to gain.
Sire, said the writing, Thyrsis, who in pain
⁠Has served thee hitherto, this boon demands—
His freedom—neither should his suit be vain,
⁠After six lustres' service in thy bands.
He took the scroll, and seemed to pore thereon:
⁠But he was blind, and could not read the case.
⁠⁠Seeming to feel his grievous want full sore—
Wherefore, with stern and frowning air, anon,
⁠He said, and flung my writing in my face—
⁠⁠Give it to DEATH—we two will talk it o'er.