Mounted upon a tiger fierce and fell;
And still a shower of blood on him doth rain,
With tears that from the eyes of widows well;
Loud in his ears the cries of orphans yell;
The axe impending o’er his head alway
While devils wait to catch his soul to hell,
The knave is fill’d with anguish and dismay—
And anxious round he looks, even straws do him affray.
XV.
Then saw I mounted on a braying ass