II.

The kings whom we behold In highest glory placed, And with rich purple graced, Compassed with soldiers bold; Whose countenance shows fierce threats, Who with rash fury chide, If any strip the pride From their vainglorious feats; He'll see them close oppressed Within by galling chains For filthy lust there reigns And poisoneth their breast, Wrath often them perplexeth Raising their minds like waves, Sorrow their power enslaves And sliding hope them vexeth. So many tyrants still Dwelling in one poor heart, Except they first depart She cannot have her will.