On a bank with roses shaded,

Whose sweet scent the violets aided,

Violets whose breath alone

Yields but feeble smell or none,

(Sweeter bed Jove ne’er repos’d on

When his eyes Olympus closed on,)

While o’er head six slaves did hold

Canopy of cloth o’ gold,

And two more did music keep,

Which might Juno lull to sleep,

Oriana who was queen

To the mighty Tamerlane,

That was lord of all the land

Between Thrace and Samarchand,

While the noon-tide fervor beam’d,

Mused herself to sleep, and dream’d.

Thus far, in magnific strain,

A young poet sooth’d his vein,

But he had nor prose nor numbers

To express a princess’ slumbers. —

Youthful Richard had strange fancies,

Was deep versed in old romances,

And could talk whole hours upon

The great Cham and Prester John, —

Tell the field in which the Sophi

From the Tartar won a trophy —

What he read with such delight of,

Thought he could as eas’ly write of —

But his over-young invention

Kept not pace with brave intention.

Twenty suns did rise and set,

And he could no further get;

But, unable to proceed,

Made a virtue out of need,

And, his labours wiselier deem’d of,

Did omit what the queen dream’d of.