110Then those goodly fabrics fell,
Temples themselves promiscuously there
Dropp'd down, and in the common ruin buried were,
The City turn'd into one Mongibel:
The haughty tyrant shook his curlèd head,
His breath with vengeance black, his face with fury red.
Then every cheek grew wan and pale,
Every heart did yield and fail:
Nought but thy presence could its power suppress,