You behold him yet without envy; for you know how under those golden Robes his Sores and Filth, and Poverty lye hid: Think the same of all those great and proud Tyrants: In whose Minds if they lay open to us saith Tacitus, we might behold gashes and wounds: For as Bodies are torn with stripes; so are the Souls of Men miserably dilacerated with blood, lust, and other impious contrivances. They laugh I confess sometimes, but it is no true laughter: They rejoyce, but their joyes are not genuine and kindly; but it fares with them as with condemned wretches in a prison, who endeavour with Dice and Tables to shake out of their Memories the thoughts of their execution, but are not able: For the deep impression of their approaching punishment, remains with them; and the fearful Image of pale Death is continually before their Eyes. Look now upon the Sicilian Tyrant, with-drawing
