I. I came not here to weep, but in thy fall To greet an old truth with a novel face ; The black-stoled Furies are a limping race, But come at last with sure revenge to all. ’Tis an old story : he who will have power Must wade through blood, and buy good will with lies ; And ne’er did perjured front offend the skies More bold than thine, to serve the shifting hour. Thine was the work which for such hands will grow, To humour the wild beast thou couldst not sway ; And so it rose in wrath one fretful day And flung thee in the mire, where justly so Thou mightst have rotted, with applause from all, Too softly prisoned in this princely hall. II. And here he sat at large and lordly-ease, And here in golden state did grandly dwell, And here roamed freely ’neath those stately trees, The imperial gambler, when his fortunes fell ! He fell too soft, who with blind rashness led His fevered people floundering to their woe, And from the kind hand of a generous foe This prison found with silken carpet spread. And yet perhaps ’twas well ; a harsher doom Had waked soft tears that oft will flow for knaves, And wasted on a purple swindler’s tomb The rightful tribute of heroic graves ; ’Twas meet thou rottest on a plumy bed, With weight of heavy curses on thy head.