At Verona

How steep the stairs within Kings' houses areFor exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,And O how salt and bitter is the breadWhich falls from this Hound's table,—better farThat I had died in the red ways of war,Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,Than to live thus, by all things comradedWhich seek the essence of my soul to mar.

'Curse God and die: what better hope than this?He hath forgotten thee in all the blissOf his gold city, and eternal day'—Nay peace: behind my prison's blinded barsI do possess what none can take away,My love, and all the glory of the stars.