Chapter CXVII

Turned to a cup, who once the sword of state Held o'er the head of slave and potentate, Is now held in the tippler's trembling hand, Or smashed upon the tavern-floor of Fate.

CXVIII

For this I say, Be watchful of the Cage Of chance; it opes alike to fool and sage; Spy on the moment, for to-morrow'll be, Like yesterday, an obliterated page.