Where are all thy beauties now, all hearts enchaining?

Where are all thy beauties now, all hearts enchaining?
Whither are thy flatterers gone with all their feigning?
All fled! and thou alone still here remaining!

Thy rich state of twisted gold to bays is turned!
Cold, as thou art, are thy loves, that so much burned!
Who die in flatterers' arms are seldom mourned.

Yet, in spite of envy, this be still proclaimed,
That none worthier than thyself thy worth hath blamed;
When their poor names are lost, thou shalt live famed.

When thy story, long time hence, shall be perused,
Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excused,
"None ever lived more just, none more abused."