Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds;

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent-royal of their emperor;

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold,

The civil citizens kneading-up the honey;

The poor mechanic porters crowding in

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate;

The sad-ey’d justice, with his surly hum,