"Great king," the poet cried, his rebec stringing,
"Thy name shall live forever--through my singing!"
"Poor fool," the king replied, "that lie is hoary;
Thy songs may live--because they chant my glory!"
So each, the sword or lyre glorifying,
In turn proclaimed his work alone undying;
And while their wordy warfare shook the rafter,
Old Time stood by and held his sides for laughter!
