The Consolation of Philosophy

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.