It makes kings, priests, slaves, heroes for the eyes
    Of vulgar folk; and gives them masks to play
    Their several parts—­not wisely, as we see;

For impious men too oft we canonise,
    And kill the saints; while spurious lords array
    Their hosts against the real nobility.

XV.

THE TRUE KINGS.

Neron fu Re.

Nero was king by accident in show;
    But Socrates by nature in good sooth;
    By right of both Augustus; luck and truth
    Less perfectly were blent in Scipio.

The spurious prince still seeks to extirpate
    The seed of natures born imperial—­
    Like Herod, Caiaphas, Meletus, all
    Who by bad acts sustain their stolen state.

Slaves whose souls tell them that they are but slaves,
    Strike those whose native kinghood all can see: 
    Martyrdom is the stamp of royalty.

Dead though they be, these govern from their graves: 
    The tyrants fall, nor can their laws remain;
    While Paul and Peter rise o’er Rome to reign.

XVI.

WHAT MAKES A KING.

Chi pennelli have e colori.

He who hath brush and colours, and chance-wise
    Doth daub, befouling walls and canvases,
    Is not a painter; but, unhelped by these,
    He who in art is masterful and wise. 
Cowls and the tonsure do not make a friar;
    Nor make a king wide realms and pompous wars;
    But he who is all Jesus, Pallas, Mars,
    Though he be slave or base-born, wears the tiar. 
Man is not born crowned like the natural king
    Of beasts, for beasts by this investiture
    Have need to know the head they must obey;
Wherefore a commonwealth fits men, I say,
    Or else a prince whose worth is tried and sure,
    Not proved by sloth or false imagining.

XVII.

TO JESUS CHRIST.

I tuo’ seguaci.

Thy followers to-day are less like Thee,
    The crucified, than those who made Thee die,
    Good Jesus, wandering all ways awry
    From rules prescribed in Thy wise charity. 
The saints now most esteemed love lying lips,
    Lust, strife, injustice; sweet to them the cry
    Drawn forth by monstrous pangs from men that die: 
    So many plagues hath not the Apocalypse
As these wherewith they smite Thy friends ignored—­
    Even as I am; search my heart, and know;
    My life, my sufferings bear Thy stamp and sign. 
If Thou return to earth, come armed; for lo,
    Thy foes prepare fresh crosses for Thee, Lord! 
    Not Turks, not Jews, but they who call them Thine.

XVIII.

TO DEATH.