The flesh, mortified, due submission assumes.
A servant to all be; princely power be forgot.
Submit to cuffs, ball-like; like bat, batter not.
So soon, otherwise, as thee fortune forsakes,
Thy flatterers will turn. ’Tis greed only, them makes.
The throngs of gross flatterers, who sang loud thy praise.
Will shake their heads, shout out: “Poor de’il! What a craze!”330
On seeing thee, then, as thou wanderest about,
They cry: “Cursed hobgoblin! From grave he’s come out!”
Like beardless, vain boy they’ve addressed as “My Lord,”