CLXXI.

Woe unto us--not her--for she sleeps well:[535] The fickle reek of popular breath,[536] the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of Monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have armed in madness--the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns,[537] and hath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,--[qa]