Alas! my Muse, alas! because my lyre
Is wholly out of tune and my voice hoarse,
Not from my song, but knowing I must quire
Always for a people who are deaf and coarse.
The favor which sets genius all on fire
My land grants not to song, but runs perforce
After its envious lusts and brutishness,
Sunken in harsh, depraved, and gross distress.