To find the fortilage that ne'er will yield
Is not an easy matter, good sir Knight;
Troy town, they say, is now a grass-grown field,
That long withstood the force of Grecian might;
And castles fall tho' deep in earth empight;
Ne ought so strong is found but what may fail,
The sun at last shall lose his glorious light,
And vows or bribes o'er women may prevail;
Their hearts are made of flesh, and mortal flesh is frail.