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No hundred cooks his costly meal prepared,
As heapt the board when Rome's proud tyrant fared:
Nor dared the artist hope his ear to gain,
By new-form'd arts to point the stings of pain.
But proud and high the Lusian spirit soar'd,
And ask'd a godlike hero for their Lord.
To none accustom'd but a hero's sway,
Great must he be whom that bold race obey.
Complaint, loud murmur'd, every city fills,
Complaint, loud echoed, murmurs through the hills.
Alarm'd, Bolonia's warlike Earl awakes,
And from his listless brother's minions takes
The
