When high-enthroned the monarch sits, resplendent in the pride
Of purple robes, while flashing steel guards him on every side;
When baleful terrors on his brow with frowning menace lower,
And Passion shakes his labouring breast — how dreadful seems his power!
But if the vesture of his state from such a one thou tear,
Thou'lt see what load of secret bonds this lord of earth doth wear.
Lust's poison rankles; o'er his mind rage sweeps in tempest rude;
Sorrow his spirit vexes sore, and empty hopes delude.
Then thou'lt confess: one hapless wretch, whom many lords oppress,
Does never what he would, but lives in thraldom's helplessness.
Monadnock Valley Press > Boethius > The Consolation of Philosophy