"For high Jove the heavens among
(Their support that suffer wrong)
Doth oppose himself again'
Bloody-minded, cruel men.
"For he shorteneth their days,
Or prolongs them with dispraise:
Or (his greater wrath to show)
Gives them over to their foe."
Cæsar, a citizen so wrong'd
Of the honour him belong'd,
To defend himself from harms
Was enforc'd to take up arms.
For he saw that envy's dart
(Pricking still their poisoned heart.
For his sudden glory got),
Made his envious foe so hot.
Wicked envy, feeding still
Foolish those that do thy will;
For thy poisons in them pour
Sundry passions every hour.
And to choler doth convert
Purest blood about the heart.
Which (o'erflowing of their breast)
Suff'reth nothing to digest.
"Other men's prosperity
Is their infelicity;
And their choler then is rais'd,
When they hear another prais'd..
"Neither Phoebus' fairest eye,
Feasts nor friendly company:
Mirth, or whatsoe'er it be,
With their humour can agree.
"Day or night they never rest,
Spiteful hate so pecks their breast.
Pinching their perplexed lungs
With her fiery poison'd tongues.
"Firebrands in their breasts they bear,
As if Tisiphon were there.
And their souls are pierc'd as sore
As Prometheus' ghost, and more.