In the time of his father, Conrad, he had received a silver pipe, such as boys in sport spirt water with, from a certain clerk, covenanting to give him a bishopric, when he should become emperor. This, when he was of man’s estate, on his application he readily gave to him. Soon after he was confined to his bed with severe sickness: his malady increasing, he lay for three days insensible and speechless, while the vital breath only palpitated in his breast: nor was there any other sign of life, than the perception of a small degree of breathing, on applying the hand to his nostrils. The bishops being present, enjoined a fast for three days, and entreated heaven with tears and vows, for the life of the king. Recovering by these remedies, as it is right to think, he sent for the bishop whom he had so improperly appointed, and deposed him by the judgment of a council: confessing, that for three whole days he saw malignant demons blowing fire upon him through a pipe; fire so furious that ours in comparison would be deemed a jest, and have no heat: that afterwards there came a young man half scorched, bearing a golden cup of immense size, full of water; and that being soothed by the sight of him, and bathed by the water, the flame was extinguished, and he recovered his health: that this young man was St. Laurence, the roof of whose church he had restored when gone to decay; and, among other presents, had honoured it with a golden chalice. Here many extraordinary things occur, which are reported of this man; for instance, of a stag, which took him on its back, when flying from his enemies, and carried him over an unfordable river: and some others which I pass by because I am unwilling to go beyond the reader’s belief. He died when he had completed the eighteenth year of his empire, and was buried at Spires, which he re-built, and called by that name, on the site of the very ancient and ruined Nemetum: his epitaph is as follows: Cæsar, as was the world once great, Lies here, confin’d in compass straight. Hence let each mortal learn his doom; No glory can escape the tomb. The flower of empire, erst so gay, Falls with its Cæsar to decay, And all the odours which it gave Sink prematurely to the grave. The laws which sapient fathers made, A listless race had dared evade, But thou reforming by the school Of Rome, restor’dst the ancient rule. Nations and regions, wide and far, Whom none could subjugate by war, Quell’d by thy sword’s resistless strife, Turn’d to the arts of civil life. What grief severe must Rome engross, Widow’d at first by Leo’s loss, And next by Cæsar’s mournful night, Reft of her other shining light; Living, what region did not dread, What country not lament thee, dead? So kind to nations once subdued, So fierce to the barbarians rude, That, those who fear’d not, must bewail, And such as griev’d not, fears assail. Rome, thy departed glory moan, And weep thy luminaries gone.