هنري الثامن

This many summers in a sea of Glory,

But far beyond my depth: my tigh-blown

At length broke under me, and now has left me

Weary, and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp, and glory of this World, I hate ye, 365

I feel my heart new open’d. Oh how wretched

Is that poor man, that hangs on Princes’ favours!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of Princes, and their ruin,

صفحة غير معروفة