Whereof the Monarch, when his meal was done,
Took a long draught, to slake his fever heat.
Again he drank, and yet again, as one
Who would have drained that river crystalline
Of all its waves, and left it dry anon:
For in his veins, ofttimes a-fire with wine,
And in his bosom, throne of sleepless pride,
The while he drank, went circling peace divine.
It seemed as though all evil passions died
Within him, slaked was every fire accurst;