Odes. Book II, Ode VIII

How full of woe the captive's lot! By foes despised, by friends forgot: To chear his breast the song remains; The song, sole refuge from his pains! Have ye no shame, ye dastard bands, Two years to leave in foreign hands Your lord to fell despair?

Know ye, O chiefs of feeble mind! Of my realm the meanest hind Should not endure captivity, Could all my wealth his freedom buy. Afflicts me more my subjects scorn Than all the evils I have borne In this degrading snare.

The faithless monarch wastes my land Despite of Honour's high command, Of Amity, and sacred Faith: My tuneful friends O stem his wrath; Ah teach him that no pride can spring From ruin of a captive king: His own fame teach to spare.