LXII.

So boyles the fired Herod's blood-swolne brest, Not to be slak't but by a sea of blood: His faithlesse crowne he feeles loose on his crest, Which a false tyrant's head ne're firmely stood. The worme of jealous envy and unrest To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food, Makes him, impatient of the lingring light, Hate the sweet peace of all-composing Night.