I am the sad widower, dissolute;
The prince of Aquitaine, by luck deposed:
My glistening soul is dead; its jeweled flute 
sings perturbed melodies until opposed!  

In the darkness of tombs, I am consoled. 
Return, Oh Pospillo and the seas which doze:
The flower which pleases my heart has been sold;
 And vines grow thick without the tender rose....

Am I love or Phoebus? ... Lusignan or Byron? 
Still, I'm made to blush from the queen's embrace; 
Although I dream in Neptune's silent place.

I have crossed the Acheron twice before:
Upon the Orphic lyre I've played by turns—
Saintly sighs and the awful cries of yore.