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!