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hend from his children; no plots to unravel, no poison to fear; no popular statesman at home, or cunning courts abroad to manage; no seeming patriots to bribe; no unsatiable favourite to gra tify; no selfish ministry to obey; no divided nation to please, or fickle mob to humour, that would direct and interfere with his pleasures.


Essay on Charity Schools.

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THE possession of a throne could never yet afford a lasting satisfaction to an ambitious mind.— This melancholy truth was felt and acknowledged by Severus. Fortune and merit had, from an . humble station, elevated him to the first place among mankind. "He had been all things," as he said himself," and all was of little value."

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THE lives and labours of millions are devoted to the service of a despotic prince, whose laws are blindly, obeyed, and whose wishes are instantly gra tified. Our imagination is dazzled by the splendid picture; and whatever may be the cool dictates of reason, there are few among us who would obstinately refuse a trial of the comforts and cares of royalty. It may therefore be of some use to bor row the experience of Abdal Rahman, whose mag nificence has perhaps excited our admiration and envy, and to transcribe an authentic memorial which was found in the closet of the deceased caliph." I have now reigned above fifty years in "victory or peace; beloved by my subjects, dread-ī

" ed

"ed by my enemies, and respected by my allies. "Riches and honours, power and pleasure, have "waited on my call, nor does any earthly blessing


appear to have been wanting to my felicity. In "this situation I have diligently numbered the days "of pure and genuine happiness, which have "fallen to my lot, they amount to fourteen.


Ib. vol. v. p. 34°.

MARIA THERESA, queen of Hungary, said, when she was dying, "Since I have been queen, I "have experienced but one happy day."

Letters of Madame, widow of Monsieur, brother
of Lewis XIV.

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"How much do they mistake, how little knowOf kings, of kingdoms, and the pains which flow From royalty, who fancy that a crown,

Because it glistens, must be lin'd with down.
With outside show, and vain appearance caught,
They look no farther, and by folly taught,
Prize high the toys of thrones, but never find
One of the many cares which lurk behind.
The gem they worship, which a crown adorns,
Nor once suspect that crown is lin'd with thorns.
O might reflection folly's place supply,
Would we one moment use her piercing eye,
Then should we learn what woe from grandeur

And learn to pity, not to envy kings!

The villager, born hunbly, and bred hard, Content his wealth, and poverty his guard, In action simply just, in conscience clear,

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By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear,

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
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 poor neighb'ring 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 lenging eye,
Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood
Of raw-bon'd cubs, enjoys that clean, coarse food,
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


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 treasur'd and preserv'd, from side to side,

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Fly round the court, e'en when compell'd by form,
He seems most calm, his soul is in a storn!
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,
Tho' his sense weakens, tho' his eyes grow dim,
That rest which comes to all, comes not to him.
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 mop'd, sits brooding o'er his head,
Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings,
Croaks forth aloud-Sleep was not made for kings!


Gotham, vol. ii. p. 162:

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

What are thy rents, thy comings-in?

Of mortal grief than do thy worshippers?

What is thy soul of adoration?

O ceremony! show me but thy worth.

Art thou ought 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?

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What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison'd flatt'ry? O, be sick, great great


And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!
Thinks't thou the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Can'st 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;
'Tis not the balm, the sceptre 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
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 fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, 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 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 labour to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,


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