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 | ||