IV.
Who mildly can his age dispose,
And at his feet proud destiny throws:
Who stoutly doth each chance behold,
Keeping his countenance uncontrolled:
Not him the ocean's rage and threat,
Stirring the waves with angry heat,
Nor hot Vesuvius when he casts
From broken hills enflaméd blasts,
Nor fiery thunder can dismay,
Which takes the tops of towers away.
Why do fierce tyrants us affright,
Whose rage is far beyond their might?
For nothing hope, nor fear thou harm,
So their weak wrath thou shalt disarm.
But he whom hope or terror takes,
Being a slave, his shield forsakes,
And leaves his place, and doth provide
A chain wherewith his hands are tied.