THE hapless ARGUS, happy in this same,
The glory of the sun's surpassing light;
The brightness of the stars, the fire which stain:
With hundred eyes, behold them always might.
But I, alas, who have but only twain,
Cannot behold the beauty of my Sun!
For which I live as blind, in endless pain;
And count myself, for want thereof, undone.
I can but wish that I an ARGUS were!
With hundred eyes to view her everywhere.