I Cannot Tell How The

High Minds, Of Native Pride And Force, Most Deeply Feel Thy Pangs, Remorse; Fear, For Their Scourge, Means Villains Have, Thou Art The Torturer Of The Brave!

Woe To The Youth Whom Fancy Gains, Winning From Reason's Hand The Reins, Pity And Woe! For Such A Mind Is Soft Contemplative, And Kind.

On His Bold Visage Middle Age Had Slightly Press'd Its Signet Sage, Yet Had Not Quench'd The Open Truth And Fiery Vehemence Of Youth: Forward And Frolic Glee Was There, The Will To Do, The Soul To Dare.

The Lover's Pleasure, Like That Of The Hunter, Is In The Chase, And The Brightest Beauty Loses Half Its Merit, As The Flower Its Perfume, When The Willing Hand Can Reach It Too Easily. There Must Be Doubt; There Must Be Difficulty And Danger.

The Sun Never Sets On The Immense Empire Of Charles V.