Book 2 — Thought.

O messenger, art thou the king, or I? Thou dalliest outside the palace gate Till on thine idle armor lie the late And heavy dews. The morn's bright scornful eye Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery, Thou smilest at the window where I wait, Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state My days go on, while false hours prophesy Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair, I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air; When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet, And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet. Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.