Classic Poem

What wretch so low would wish to be a king!
Did he but know the never-ending cares
That wait on royalty! — ambition's self
Would turn his fiery eyes from the sad sight,
And seek, with pleasure, sweet obscurity.
'Tis not the golden trappings that we wear,
The brilliant court, the homage sycophants
Can pay, will chase that foe to balmy sleep,
That demon of the soul! rebellious care —
The giddy croud, still pleas'd with glitt'ring shew!
Gaze at the empty grandeur that attends
The throned monarch; admire the diamond
And the massy crown; but, heedless, never dream
That, under ev'ry gem, a serpent's sting
Lies hid, for our destruction. The regal robe,
To which mankind, with ceaseless toil, aspire,
Like that which jealous Dejanira gave
To Hercules, poisons the wearer!