A Poor Old King, With Sorrow For My Crown, Throned Upon Straw, And Mantled With The Wind - For Pity, My Own Tears Have Made Me Blind That I Might Never See My Children'S Frown; And, May Be, Madness, Like A Friend, Has Thrown A Folded Fillet Over My Dark Mind, So That Unkindly Speech May Sound For Kind - Albeit I Know Not. - I Am Childish Grown - And Have Not Gold To Purchase Wit Withal - I That Have Once Maintain'D Most Royal State - A Very Bankrupt Now That May Not Call My Child, My Child - All Beggar'D Save In Tears, Wherewith I Daily Weep An Old Man'S Fate, Foolish - And Blind - And Overcome With Years!