Flings himself down to die, in his last need

And agony of famine, doth behold

No scornful guests, with their long purple robes,

To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just!

These are the days when pomp is made to feel

Its human mould!

4th Cit. Heard you last night the sound

Of Saint Iago’s bell?—How sullenly

From the great tower it peal’d!

5th Cit. Ay, and ’tis said