† ^noteK. Henry.
Upon the King! let us our lives, our souls,
Our debts, our careful wives, our children and
Our sins, lay on the King; he must bear all.
O hard condition, and twin-born with greatness,
Subject to breath of ev'ry fool, whose sense
No more can feel but his own wringing.
What infinite heart-ease must Kings neglect,

That private men enjoy? and what have Kings
That privates have not too, save ceremony?
&plquo;And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
&plquo;What kind of God art thou? that suffer'st more
&plquo;Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers.
&plquo;What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?
&plquo;O ceremony, shew me but thy worth:
&plquo;What! is thy soul of adoration?
&plquo;Art thou ought else but place, degree and form,
&plquo;Creating awe and fear in other men?
&plquo;Wherein thou art less happy, being fear'd,
&plquo;Than they in fearing.
&plquo;What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
&plquo;But poison'd flatt'ry? O be sick, great greatness,
&plquo;And bid thy ceremony give thee cure.
&plquo;Think'st thou the fiery feaver will go out
&plquo;With titles blown from adulation?
&plquo;Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
&plquo;Can'st thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,
&plquo;Command the health of it? no, thou proud dream,
Thou play'st so subtly with a King's repose,
I am a King that find thee; and I know
'Tis not the balm, the scepter and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The enter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farsed title running 'fore the King,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shoar of this world;
No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremonies,
Not all these laid in bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly; as the wretched slave,
Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him torest, cramm'd with distressful bread,

Never sees horrid night, the child of hell:
But like a lacquey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phœbus; and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows so the ever-running year
With profitable labour to his grave:
And (but for ceremony) such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,
Hath the fore-hand and vantage of a King:
The slave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots
What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace;
Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

Previous section

Next section