While you have the power to grant
Suits, or send them away,
Banished to the quarters
Of a darker globe,
Where they will rend themselves
In vain, turning empty tales; while you
Sit on a purple seat, and smell
Mollia's spiring cloves as they wing
Through the fragrant air, I,
Oh Wealth-Begotten, beg
Crusts from my lady,
Whatever muck a cruel
Hand is kind enough to throw
At frozen earth.
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