Oh, might Reflection Folly's place supply, Would we one moment use her piercing eye, Then should we find what woe from grandeur springs, And learn to pity, not to envy kings! The villager, born humbly and bred hard, Content his wealth, and Poverty his guard, In action simply just, in conscience clear, By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear, 120 His means but scanty, and his wants but few, Labour his business, and his pleasure too, Enjoys more comforts in a single hour Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power. Call'd up by health, he rises with the day, And goes to work, as if he went to play, Whistling off toils, one half of which might make The stoutest Atlas of a palace quake; 'Gainst heat and cold, which make us cowards faint, Harden'd by constant use, without complaint 130 He bears what we should think it death to bear; Short are his meals, and homely is his fare; His thirst he slakes at some pure neighbouring brook, Nor asks for sauce where appetite stands cook. When the dews fall, and when the sun retires Behind the mountains, when the village fires, Which, waken'd all at once, speak supper nigh, At distance catch, and fix his longing eye, Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood Of raw-boned cubs enjoys that clean, coarse food, 140 Which, season'd with good-humour, his fond bride 'Gainst his return is happy to provide; Then, free from care, and free from thought, he creeps Into his straw, and till the morning sleeps. Not so the king--with anxious cares oppress'd His bosom labours, and admits not rest: A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight Of majesty, and gives up ease for state. E'en when his smiles, which, by the fools of pride, Are treasured and preserved from side to side, 150 Fly round the court, e'en when, compell'd by form, He seems most calm, his soul is in a storm. Care, like a spectre, seen by him alone, With all her nest of vipers, round his throne By day crawls full in view; when Night bids sleep, Sweet nurse of Nature! o'er the senses creep; When Misery herself no more complains, And slaves, if possible, forget their chains; Though his sense weakens, though his eyes grow dim, That rest which comes to all, comes not to him. 160 E'en at that hour, Care, tyrant Care, forbids The dew of sleep to fall upon his lids; From night to night she watches at his bed; Now, as one moped, sits brooding o'er his head; Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings, Croaks forth aloud--'Sleep was not made for kings!' Thrice hath the moon, who governs this vast ball, Who rules most absolute o'er me and all; To whom, by full conviction taught to bow, At new, at full, I pay the duteous vow; 170 Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since, (bless'd be that season, for before I was a mere, mere mortal, and no more,