CXVII
Turned to a cup, who once the sword of state
Held o'er the head of slave and potentate,
Is now held in the tippler's trembling hand,
Or smashed upon the tavern-floor of Fate.
CXVIII
For this I say, Be watchful of the Cage
Of chance; it opes alike to fool and sage;
Spy on the moment, for to-morrow'll be,
Like yesterday, an obliterated page.
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