Thou art a king, I grant, but we are framed for boundless lore,
Thy wealth's renowned, our skill by bards proclaimed on every shore,
Between us no vast gulf is set: what though thou scorn our name,
Yet we, to all indifferent, heed not thy praise or blame.
This world still groans 'neath many hundred kings
All emulous to snatch their neighbour's share,
Each paltry gain some fresh enjoyment brings,
To fools whose greed should fill them with despair.
This earth is but a lump of clay girt with a briny ditch,
Where hosts of squabbling kings contend, all striving to be rich,
One cannot blame these grovelling slaves for clinging to their store,
But out on those who stoop to beg at any royal door!
