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.