Immortals in this world much boredom find,
As but malison harbours their dreary mind,
And tiresome grows both saint and heroine,
Who rarely rouse them from apathic spleen.
On these thrones lounge most gluttonous and slothful,
And sate deep from their vile and hedonistic desires,
And only from two thrones no godlike feature respires,
For no boredom fills the lungs of lusty and wrothful.
Yet think not badly of their strange ways,
For at times even here the sun's fair rays,
Illuminate their dark and decadent empire,
As daring man spits on gods' dusty attire.
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