'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!