That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis?
Above our life we love a steadfast friend.
Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.
What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?
I'm armed with more than complete steel, - The justice of my quarrel.