WHEREIN, QUITTING ROME, HE CRAVES ONLY LAURA'S PITY, ONLY COLONNA'S CONTINUED PROSPERITY

From impious Babylon, where all shame is dead,
All goodness banished to extremest bounds,
Nurse of black errors, lair of brutish hounds,
I, too, in hope of longer life have fled.
Here, and alone, where Love goes garlanded
I follow, weaving flowers and fervent sounds,
And hold communion with myself in rounds
Of thought and hope — the exile's only bread.
Not fortune nor the multitude I need,
Nor personal esteem nor worldly ease,
Nor outward heat nor fiery inner seed:
I ask but two companions — and of these,
One with more mercy grace Love's golden seat,
The other walk, as always, with firm feet.