Which made the sunlight of his lowly board,
Is touch’d by sickness; some familiar voice
Greets him no more; and shall not fate and time
Have done their work, since last we parted hence,
Upon an empire? Ay, within those years,
Hearts from their ancient worship have fall’n off,
And bow’d before new stars; high names have sunk
From their supremacy of place, and others
Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty sounds
At which thrones tremble. Oh! be slow to trust