A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown,
Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind— For pity, my own tears have made me blind That I might never see my children's frown;
And, may be, madness, like a friend, has thrown A folded fillet over my dark mind,
So that unkindly speech may sound for kind— Albeit I know not.—I am childish grown— And have not gold to purchase wit withal— I that have once maintain'd most royal state— A very bankrupt now that may not call My child, my child—all beggar'd save in tears,
Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate,
Foolish—and blind—and overcome with years!
