More oft than once Death whisper'd in mine ear,

Grave what thou hears in diämond and gold,

I am that monarch whom all monarchs fear,

Who hath in dust their far-stretch'd pride uproll'd;

All, all is mine beneath moon's silver sphere,

And nought, save virtue, can my power withhold:

This, not believed, experience true thee told,

By danger late when I to thee came near.

As bugbear then my visage I did show,

That of my horrors thou right use might'st make,

And a more sacred path of living take:--

Now still walk arméd for my ruthless blow:

Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past,

And live each day as if it were thy last.