BUT what avails it me, your Arms have thrown
stately Walls, and lofty Turrets down?
As when they stood, if I am robb'd of thee,
fall'n to  standing still to ;
To  who, with captive Oxen, toil
To turn the Glebe, and till the  Soil;
And while, with crooked Ploughs, they discompose
Th'ill-bury'd Ashes of their slaughter'd Foes;
While  Fields, grown fat with native Blood,
Bear fruitful Crops, where stately  stood;
While verdant Harvests hide their ruin'd Wall,
I mourn my absent Lord, who wrought its Fall;
Nor can I know the Land, where you reside,
Nor who, nor what detains you from your Bride.