The monarch, from his palace stalking down,
With visage all inflam’d; his sable robe
Sweeping in lengthening folds along the ground:
He shakes his sceptre, and th’ impending scourge
Brandishes high; nor tears nor shrieks avail;
But with impetuous fury it descends,
Imprinting horrid wounds with fatal flow
Of blood attended, and convulsive pangs.
Curst be the wretch, for ever doom’d to bear
Infernal whippings; he, whose savage hands