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8 But he in whose hand rests thy life, even breath, thy ways, and all, Thou hast not glorified him sent this wrote on the wall. God numbered thy Kingdom hath ended; the Hand points here, In Balance he hath weighed thee too, The set hour drawing near.

How light soever by thee set, thou as thy weightless Gold, His Image wanting, found much more lighter than can be told. Parted, divided thine Estate, given to the Medes is, At Hand, the Hand bids it adieu, finish'd thy Majesties.

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