Spleen

I'm like some king in whose corrupted veinsFlows agèd blood; who rules a land of rains;Who, young in years, is old in all distress;Who flees good counsel to find wearinessAmong his dogs and playthings, who is stirredNeither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird;Whose weary face emotion moves no moreE'en when his people die before his door.His favorite Jester's most fantastic wileUpon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile;The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good,Can lighten this young skeleton's dull moodNo more with shameless toilets. In his gloomEven his lilied bed becomes a tomb.The sage who takes his gold essays in vainTo purge away the old corrupted strain,His baths of blood, that in the days of oldThe Romans used when their hot blood grew cold,Will never warm this dead man's bloodless pains,For green Lethean water fills his veins.