A King turn'd Thresher

FArewell ye gay Bubbles, Fame, Glory, Renown!
Farewell you bright Thorns that are pinn'd to a Crown,
Your little Enchantments no more shall prevail;
Look, look where my Sceptre is turn'd to a Flail!
O who can the Bliss of a Monarch discern,
Whose Subjects are Mice, and whose Palace (a Barn?
In spight of curs'd Fortune he Kings it below,
While he looks all around him, and sees not a Foe.
The groans of the murder'd in Death and Despair,
Ne'r reach his calm Kingdom, but dye in the Air:
Fierce Battles roar on; but too weak is the voice,
For he threshes and threshes, and drowns all the Noise.
The Soul of Domitian sunk into a Clod,
Dyonisius his Scepter was as light as his Rod;
And the Little-Great-Charles with his Shovel and Spade,
Dug a hole, and lay down in the Grave he had made.
But a thousand times brighter my Stars do appear,
And I ne'r was a Monarch in earnest till here:
On a heap of fresh Straw I can laugh and lye down,
And pity the man that's condemn'd to a Crown.
No Armyes of Frogs here croak by my Throne,
I can rise, I can walk, I can eat all alone:
Reliev'd from the Siege of importunate men,
I enjoy my Original Freedom agen.
Scarce peeps out the Sun with a blushing young Ray,
E're my brisk feather'd Bell-man will tell me 'tis day;
Proud with his Serallio behind and before,
He cheerly triumphing, struts along by the Door.
Here's an honest brown George which my Scrip does adorn,
Here's a true Houshold Loaf of the hiew o' my Corn;
Here's a good Rammel-Cheese, but a little decay'd,
As fat as the Cream out of which it was made.
When Death shall cross Proverbs, and strike at my Heart,
When the best of my Flails is no fence for his Dart;
I'le open my Arms, not a Groan, not a Sigh,
Drop't soft on the Straw, with a smile I will dye.