Sowing where he was sown; whence sprung a bud
Of bitterness and blood.
ANTISTROPHE III.
The city tosses to and fro,
Like a drifted ship; wave after wave,
Now high, now low, with triple-crested flow
Now reared sublime, brays round the plunging prow.
These walls are but a plank: if the kings fall
’Tis ruin to us all.
STROPHE IV.