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Sleep. Sleep, gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulld with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal
up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king ?
The Commonwealth of Bees.
2 different degrees.
MISERIES OF ROYALTY-A SHEPHERD'S BLESSINGS. 17
Which pillage they with merry march bring home
The Miseries of Royalty. O hard condition ! twin-born with greatness, Subjected to the breath of every fool, Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect, That private men enjoy ? And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers ? What are thy rents ? what are thy comings-in ? 0 ceremony, show me but thy worth ! What is the soul of adoration ?3 Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men ? Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd Than they in fearing.
The Blessings of a Shepherd's Life.
? executioners. 36 What is the real worth of adoration ?"
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
hours must I tend my flock;
yean ; So many years ere I shall sheer the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects' treachery! Oh, yes it doth ; a thousandfold it doth. And to conclude,—the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates, His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
The Vicissitudes of Life.
So farewell to the little good you bear me ;
; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening—nips his root;
my heart new open’d: oh, how wretched
and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
Adversity the Trial of Man,
Why then, you princes,
Take but degree away, untune that string,
In mere oppugnancy :1 the bounded waters
Immoderate Grief discommended.
'Tis sweet and commendable in
any the most vulgar thing to sense,