Yea, in his very swaddling-robe, was he
Than Vincislaus, his big-bearded son
Whom luxury and ease have made so gross.
And he of slender nose, who, with the one
So bland of aspect, seems in consult close,
Died flying, and in dust his lilies laid.
Look! how he beats the breast he cannot calm:
Mark too his mate there sighing, who hath made
For his pale cheek a pillow of his palm!
One is the Father of that pest of France,
Father-in-law the other: well they know
His lewd, base life! this misery is the lance
That to the core cuts either of them so.
And he so stout of limb, in unison
Singing with him there of the manly nose,
Of every virtue put the girdle on;
And if that youth behind him in repose
Had after him reigned in his Father’s stead,
Virtue from vase to vase had been well poured,
Which of the other heirs may not be said.