I stood in Cyprus on the flowery plains
Where mighty Love has fixed his royal seat,
And laying my petition at his feet
Implored his mercy in heart-moving strains:
“Dread Sire” the writing said—“your slave complains
Of his hard servitude and cruel tasks.
Pity him, Sire! freedom he humbly asks;
Six lustres he has worn his servile chains.[”]
From my extended hand the scroll he took
As if to read—but not a word could see,
Then threw it from him with disdainful look
Like one who had been scorned—Begone! said he,
Such idle mockery I do not brook,
Give it to Death,—he'll speak to you for me.