‘What, no crown won,
These two whole years,
By man of fortitude beyond his peers,
In Thrace or Macedon?’

‘No, none.
But what deep trouble does my Lycon feel,
And hide 'neath chat about the commonweal?’

‘Glaucé but now the third time did again
The thing which I forbade. I had to box her ears.
'Twas ill to see her both blue eyes
Settled in tears
Despairing on the skies,
And the poor lip all pucker'd into pain;
Yet, for her sake, from kisses to refrain!’

‘Ho, Timocles, take down
That crown.
No, not that common one for blood with extreme valour spilt,
But yonder, with the berries gilt.
'Tis, Lycon, thy just meed.
To inflict unmoved
And firm to bear the woes of the Beloved
Is fortitude indeed.’