The fiend enchain'd; she sought to dieMore nobly, nor with woman's dreadQuail'd at the steel, nor timorouslyIn her fleet ships to covert fled.Amid her ruin'd halls she stoodUnblench'd, and fearless to the endGrasp'd the fell snakes, that all her bloodMight with the cold black venom blend,Death's purpose flushing in her face;Nor to our ships the glory gave,That she, no vulgar dame, should graceA triumph, crownless, and a slave.

No Persian cumber, boy, for me;I hate your garlands linden-plaited;Leave winter's rose where on the treeIt hangs belated.Wreath me plain myrtle; never thinkPlain myrtle either's wear unfitting,Yours as you wait, mine as I drinkIn vine-bower sitting.