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!