My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd,
I hardly now can force a word.
I die unpitied and forgot,
And on some dunghill left to rot.
II.
To vilest slaves I owe my birth.
How is the greatest monarch blest,
When in my gawdy livery drest!
No haughty nymph has power to run
From me; or my embraces shun.
Stabb'd to the heart, condemn’d to flame,
My constancy is still the same.
The favourite messenger of Jove,
And Lemnian God, consulting strove
To make me glorious to the sight
Of mortals, and the Gods delight,
Soon would their altars' flame expire,
If I refus'd to lend them fire.
III.
Lo, here I stand with double face;
Superiour none on earth I find;
But see below me all mankind.
Yet, as it oft attends the great,
I almost sink with my own weight.
At every motion undertook,
