Library › Boethius › Consolation of Philosophy

Consolation of Philosophy

Boethius, tr. “I.T.”, rev. Stewart, 1918

Book 4, 2. Poem 2

The kings whom we behold
In highest glory placed,
And with rich purple graced,
Compassed with soldiers bold;
Whose countenance shows fierce threats,
Who with rash fury chide,
If any strip the pride
From their vainglorious feats;
He’ll see them close oppressed
Within by galling chains.
For filthy lust there reigns
And poisoneth their breast,
Wrath often them perplexeth
Raising their minds like waves,
Sorrow their power enslaves
And sliding hope them vexeth.
So many tyrants still
Dwelling in one poor heart,
Except they first depart
She cannot have her will.