Classic Poem

Nay , marvel not, good friends, to hear my tale:
Call it the vision of a restless night;
You see me — what I am, a simple wight,
Not greatly learned, old, and poor, and frail;
Then wherefore should you tremble and turn pale?
I am no wearer of a kingly crown,
No sovereign lord to slay you with a frown,
No sceptred conqueror in bloody mail.

And yet in truth, last night, I was a king;
Last night I sat upon a royal seat
With all the hosts of heaven at my feet.
Nay, good my masters, cease your murmuring.
Or slay me, if you will. For, were I slain,
This very night I shall be king again.