intertissued

Indeed , the French may lay twenty
French crowns to one they will beat us , for they
bear them on their shoulders . But it is no English
treason to cut French crowns , and tomorrow the
King himself will be a clipper .

Upon the King ! Let us our lives , our souls , our
debts , our careful wives , our children , and our sins ,
lay on the King !
We must bear all . O hard condition ,
Twin-born with greatness , subject 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 worshipers ?
What are thy rents ? What are thy comings-in ?
O ceremony , show me but thy worth !
What is thy soul of adoration ?
Art thou aught else but place , degree , and form ,
Creating awe and fear in other men ,
Wherein thou art less happy , being feared ,
Than they in fearing ?
What drink’st thou oft , instead of homage sweet ,
But poisoned flattery ? O , be sick , great greatness ,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure !
Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation ?
Will it give place to flexure and low bending ?
Canst thou , when thou command’st the beggar’s
knee ,
Command the health of it ? No , thou proud dream ,
That 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 intertissued robe of gold and pearl ,
The farcèd title running ’fore the King ,
The throne he sits on , nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world ;
No , not all these , thrice-gorgeous ceremony ,
Not all these , laid in bed majestical ,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave
Who , with a body filled and vacant mind ,
Gets him to rest , crammed with distressful bread ;
Never sees horrid night , the child of hell ,
But , like a lackey , from the rise to set
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus , 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 labor to his grave .
And , but for ceremony , such a wretch ,
Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep ,
Had the forehand 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 .