Classic Poem

Because ye made your backs your shields, it came
To pass, ye Guelfs, that these your enemies
From hares grew lions: and because your eyes
Turned homeward, and your spurs e'en did the same,
Full many an one who still might win the game
In fevered tracts of exile pines and dies.
Ye blew your bubbles as the falcon flies,
And the wind broke them up and scattered them.
This counsel, therefore. Shape your high resolves
In good King Robert's humour, and afresh
Accept your shames, forgive, and go your way.
And so her peace is made with Pisa! Yea,
What cares she for the miserable flesh
That in the wilderness has fed the wolves?