 | Songs of summer |  |
24
THE KING MUSES.
Nay, keep your seats, I pray; let no one stir:The banquet's just begun. Slaves, fill their cups,
And stand behind their chairs with flasks of wine.
For me, my lords, I mean to walk awhile,
And think my thoughts. Come off, my kingly crown!
You chafe my temples with your golden round,
And turn my hair to silver: soh, lie there.
And now I doff my robe. Drink, gentlemen.
Good Fool, put on this weary robe and crown,
And play the King. Had I a wreath of flowers,
Such as the country maids do wear in spring,
Fresh wild flowers, cool with dew, I'd crown myself.
But why pluck flowers to bind a few gray hairs?
Before the year is out a whited skull
Will be the lordliest thing that's left of me.
Away with all this show! this well-piled board,
These glittering lamps, music, and song and wine!
Bring me a robe of sackcloth, one of you,
Another strew some ashes on the ground.
When you have finished feasting, gentlemen,
You'll find me with the leper at my gates.
| Songs of summer | |