"Bust she, that moves us like the dust which flies Before the restless wind, which whirls it round, Lifts if aloft awhile, and from the skies Blows back anew the rising cloud to ground, To a hundred thousand swells, in Francis' eyes, The soldiers who Pavia's walls surround.
The monarch sees but that which he commands, Nor marks how wax or waste his leaguering bands.