Another translation from  the poetry of Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy (3.4 metrum), on the worthlessness of worldly office, if it it bestowed by worthless people.

Quamvis se Tyrio superbus ostro
Comeret et niveis lapillis,
Invisus tamen omnibus vigebat
Luxuriae Nero saevientis;
Sed quondam dabat improbus verendis
Patribus indecores curules.
Quis illos igitur putet beatos
Quos miseri tribuunt honores?

Beyond his pearls and purples,
the excess Nero loved
the most was cruelty.
So consuls worthy of
esteem he never chose.
Such honors from above
no Nero could bestow, as
it was honor he’d none of.

Postscript. “Too many of’s,” I’m told by a critic I respect. Eh, oh well.