For when his proud feet fcorn to touch the mold, His head's à pris'ner in a gaol of gold.
In numb'ring fubjects, he but numbers care; And when with fhouts the people do begin, Let him fuppofe, th' applaufe but prayers are, That he may 'fcape the danger he is in ; Wherein t' adventure he fo boldly dares :
The multitude hath multitudes of fin; And he that firft doth cry, God fave the king, Is the firft man, him evil news doth bring. Loft in his own, mifled in others ways;
Sooth'd with deceits, and fed with flatteries; Himself difpleafing, wicked men to please; Obey'd no more than he shall tyrannize; The leaft in fafety, being moft at ease; With one friend winning many enemies: And when he fitteth in his greatest state, They that behold him moft, bear him most hate.
Drayton's Barons Wars. One crown is guarded with a thousand swords: To mean eftates, mean forrows are but shewn ; But crowns have cares, whose workings be unknown. Drayton's Dudley to Jane Grey.
What they'll but think, and not what is, is wrong: Paffion is reafon, when it (peaks from might. I tell thee, man; nor kings, nor gods exempt, They both grow pale, if once they find contempt. Marfion's Sophonisba. Why man, I never was a prince till now. "Tis not the baied pate, the bended knees, Gilt tip ftaves, Tyrian purple, chairs of state, Troop. of py'd butterflies, that flutter still In greatnets fummer, that confirm a prince : 'Tis not th' unfav'ry breath of multitudes, Shouting, and clapping, with confused din, That makes a prince: No, Lucio, he's a king,
A true, right king, that dares do ought, fave wrong; Fears nothing mortal, but to be unjust; Who is not blown up with the flatt'ring puffs Of fpungy fycophants; who ftands unmov'd, Defpight the juftling of opinion:
Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng, That ftrive to prefs his quiet out of him; Who fits upon Jove's foot-ftool, as I do, Adorning, not affecting majefty:
Whofe brow is wreathed with the filver crown Of clear content: This, Lucio, is a king- And of this empire, ev'ry man's poffefs'd, That's worth his foul.
Marfion's First Part of Antonio and Mellida. Wretched ftate of kings! that standing high; Their faults are marks, fhot at by ev'ry eye.
Dekker's Match me in London.
Why do you gods place us above the reft, To be ferv'd, flatter'd, and ador'd; till we Believe we hold within our hands your thunder: And when we come to try the pow'r we have, There's not a leaf fhakes at our threatnings?
Beaumont and Fletcher's Philafter. That king ftands fureft, who by's virtue rifes More than by birth or blood. That prince is rare, Who ftrives in youth, to fave his age from care.
That muft of force be cenfur'd by their flaves! Not only blam'd, for doing things are ill; But, for not doing all, that all men will.
The lives of princes, fhould like dials move;
Whofe regular exainple is fo ftrong,
They make the times by them go right, or wrong.
And what is't makes this bleffed government, But a most provident council, who dare freely Inform him the corruption of the times? Though fome of th' court hold it prefumption, To inftruct princes what they ought to do; It is a noble duty to inform them,
What they ought to foresee.
Some would think the fouls
Webfler's Dutchefs of Malfy.
Of princes were brought forth by fome more weighty Caufe, than thofe of meaner perfons: They are Deceiv'd, there's the fame hand to them; the like Paffions fway them; the fame reason that makes A vicar go to law for a tythe-pig,
And undo his neighbours, makes them spoil A whole province, and batter down goodly Cities with the cannon.
Webster's Dutchess of Malfy.
That happiness to others, which themselves do want.
Dauborne's Poor Man's Comfort
That's an unhappy ftate,
When kings muft fear to love, left fubjects hate.
Happy's that prince, that ere he rules, fhall know,
Where the chief errors of his ftate do grow.
Swetnam, the Woman Hater. For a king
Not to be forced, is a glorious state;
But not perfuaded, is a dang'rous fate.
For tho' the faults of private men, may be Stay'd in themselves: A princes may redound, And be reflex'd on thousands: Thus at fea, Men by a fhip-boy's fault are rarely drown'd; But if the pilot fhall a fault commit,
They're caft upon the ground, or funk, or split.
Oh! why do princes love to be deceiv'd? And ev'n do force abufes on themselves? Their ears are fo with pleafing speech beguil'd; That truth they malice, flatt'ry truth account: And their own foul and understanding loft; Go, what they are, to feek in other mens.
Condition of a prince! who though he vary
More shapes than Proteus, in his mind and manners; He cannot win an universal fuffrage,
From the many-headed monfter, multitude:
Like Efop's foolish frogs, they trample on him, As on a fenfelefs block, if his government be easy; And if he prove a ftork, they croke, and rail Against him as a tyrant.
Maflinger's Emperor of the Eaft.
Wherefore pay you
This adoration to a finful creature?
I'm flesh and blood, as you are; fenfible Of heat, and cold; as much a flave unto The tyranny of my paffions, as the meanest Of my poor fubjects. The proud attributes By oil'd-tongue flatt'ry impos'd upon us, As facred, glorious, high, invincible, The deputy of heaven, and in that Omnipotent with all falfe titles elfe, Coin'd to abuse our frailty, though compounded, And by the breath of fycophants apply'd, Cure not the leaft fit of an ague in us.
We may give poor men riches; confer honcurs
On undefervers; raife, or ruin fuch
As are beneath us; and with this puff'd up, Ambition would perfuade us to forget
That we are men: But he that fits above us, And to whom, at our utmoft rate, we are
But pageant properties; derides our weakness: In me, to whom you kneel, 'tis most apparent:
Can I call back yesterday, with all their aids That bow unto my scepter? or restore My mind to that tranquillity, and peace It then enjoy'd? can I make Eudoxia chaste? Or vile Paulinus honest?
Maflinger's Emperor of the Eaf.
My crown, pray take it; and with it, give me leave To tell you, what it brings the hapless wearer, Befide the out-fide glory: For I am
Read in the miferable fate of kings. You think it glorious to command, but are More fubject than the poorest pays you duty; And must obey your fears, your want of fleep, Rebellion from your vaffals, wounds ev'n from Their very tongues, whofe quietness you sweat for; For whofe dear health you waste and fright your Strength to paleness, and your blood into a froft. You are not certain of a friend or fervant, 'To build your faith upon; your life is but
Your fubject's murmur, and your death their facrifice.
Their juftice, and throw fhame upon defervers; Patience fo wounded, turns a fury.
Shirley's Young Admiral. A king that fosters men fo dipt in blood; May be call'd merciful, but never good.
Sam. Rowley's Noble Spanish Soldier. Oh happy kings
Whose thrones are raised in their fubjects hearts!
John Ford's Perkin Warbeck.
Otis our folly, folly, my dear friend,
Because we fee th' activity of ftates,
To flatter them with false eternity!
Why longer than the dweller lafts the house? Why should the world be always, and not man?
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