‘ What, no crown won,
These two whole years,
By man of fortitude beyond his peers,
In Thrace or Macedon?’
‘ No, none.
But what deep trouble does my Lycon feel,
And hide‘ neath chat about the commonweal?’
‘ Glauce but now the third time did again
The thing which I forbade. I had to box her ears.
‘ Twas ill to see her both blue eyes
Settled in tears
Despairing on the skies,
And the poor lip all pucker'd into pain;
Yet, for her sake, from kisses to refrain!’
‘ Ho, Timocles, take down
That crown.
No, not that common one for blood with extreme valour spilt,
But yonder, with the berries gilt.
‘ Tis, Lycon, thy just meed.
To inflict unmoved
And firm to bear the woes of the Beloved
Is fortitude indeed.’