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Neither could Crœsus, Lydia’s king,

And mighty conqueror, ’scape the sting

Of Fortune. On the burning pyre

He stood and round him leapt the fire,

When suddenly the lowering sky

Disburdened it so copiously

That died the flames; his foes dismayed

Thereat took flight, nor long time stayed

King Crœsus, but escaped his bane.

Then ruled he o’er his land again;

But yet, once more by Fortune flung

Tn durance, was he lastly hung;

But ere that happed this vision dreamed:

High on a beech tree’s top he seemed,

Where mighty Jupiter had set

Himself to wash him; when all wet

By Jove’s hands made, his glorious son,

Phœbus, with towel, had begun

To dry his skin. Alas! too true

That dreaming proved; he thereby grew

To hateful pride and foolishness,

And then succumbed to sore distress.

Though when to Phanie fair, his child,

He told this dream so strange and wild,

She strove to tear from off his eyes

The veil, for she was passing wise

To pierce the visions of the night,

And show their truth in morning light.”