Each wall, so late superb, deformed nods,
And not an altar's left t' appease the gods.
You know what should follow, and particularly this:—
Of father, country, and of friends bereft,
Not one of all these sumptuous temples left;
Which, whilst the fortune of our house did stand,
With rich-wrought ceilings spoke the artist's hand.
O excellent poet! though despised by those who sing the verses of Euphorion. He is sensible that all things which come on a sudden are harder to be borne. Therefore, when he had set off the riches of Priam to the best advantage, which had the appearance of a long continuance, what does he add?—
Lo, these all perish'd in one blazing pile;
The foe old Priam of his life beguiled,