Ah hapless I, that should be only woodWhat makes me ever formidable seem!Yet will I charge my garden's lustful lordFor me deign robber-folk to irrumate.

A chough, a caries, an eld-worn grave,By lapse of crowding centuries rotten grown,Who as a wetnurse haply may have fedTithonus, Priam, Nestor, and perchance