And tortuous Death was true Devotion’s meed;
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn,
That nould on wooden image place her creed;
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn;
Ah, dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should e’er return!
In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac’d,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac’d,
The matron sate, and some with rank she grac’d,