Charles II. of Spain to Approaching Death

Make way, my lords ! for Death now once again
Waits on the palace stairs. He comes to lay
His finger on my brow. Make way ! make way,
Ye whispering groups that scent an ending reign !
Death, if I make thee a grandee of Spain,
And give thee half my subjects, wilt thou stay
Behind the door a little, while I play
With life a moment longer ? I would fain.
Oh, who shall turn the fatal shadow back
On Ahaz' sundial now ? Who 'll cure the king
When Death awaits him, motionless and black ?
Upon the wall the inexorable thing
Creeps on and on, with horror in its track.
The king is dying. Bid the great bells ring.