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 Despite, and quells the host

Of Heaven to his will,

Nor shall forbear, until

He glut his mood, or till he feel a hand

That even his fenced seat shall not withstand.

Yea, of me shall he yet have need,—of one

On whom strong chains at his will are done,—

The President of the gods most high,

To show him his late intent, whereby

He is spoil'd of his honour, is spoil'd of his throne:

And neither with honey of tongue prevailing,

Shall he find him a spell to charm me, nor, quailing

For his rigorous threats, shall I ever vent

The thing that he would, till the punishment

Of my bonds be undone, and he give consent

For the wrong he hath wrought to atone.