Stripped by the tax of all his scanty pice,
Ryot seeks Rajah's pity and advice:
‘Your coffers store the product of my pains,
And nought for your petitioner remains.
Suffer him, then, whom more you cannot squeeze,
To seek some lord whose vassals live at ease,
And say, to whose allegiance shall I pass?’
‘Go straight,’ advised the monarch, ‘to Madras.’
‘O sir, that land your brother's rule endures,
And his financial principles are yours.’
‘To Tinnevelly.’ ‘That your uncle sways.’
‘Tanjore.’ ‘Your nephew's government obeys.’
‘Then to the devil,’ roared the king, ‘repair.’
‘Alas, great sire, your royal father's there.’