Into some cloister, with my Maker there
To make my peace in penitence and prayer,
Happily settle the disorder’d realm
That now cries loudly for a lineal heir.
Seg. And so—
When the crown falters on your shaking head,
And slips the sceptre from your palsied hand,
And Poland for her rightful heir cries out;
When not only your stol’n monopoly
Fails you of earthly power, but ’cross the grave