The gods, for that themselves are good, The like in mortal monarchs would. The prime of royal rights is grace; To this e'en sweet revenge gives place. So thinks your highness,--while your wrath Its cradle for its coffin hath. Achilles no such conquest knew-- In this a hero less than you. That name indeed belongs to none, Save those who have, beneath the sun, Their hundred generous actions done. The golden age produced such powers, But truly few this age of ours. The men who now the topmost sit, Are thank'd for crimes which they omit. For you, unharm'd by such examples, A thousand noble deeds are winning temples, Wherein Apollo, by the altar-fire, Shall strike your name upon his golden lyre. The gods await you in their azure dome; One age must serve for this your lower home. One age entire with you would Hymen dwell:[23] O that his sweetest spell For you a destiny may bind By such a period scarce confined! The princess and yourself no less deserve. Her charms as witnesses shall serve; As witnesses, those talents high Pour'd on you by the lavish sky, Outshining all pretence of peers Throughout your youthful years. A Bourbon seasons grace with wit: To that which gains esteem, in mixture fit, He adds a portion from, above, Wherewith to waken love. To paint your joy--my task is less sublime: I therefore turn aside to rhyme What did a certain bird of prey.