Whose trump shall wake the world, and raise up men
Who in earth's bosom slept, bed-rid till then.
What man then would, who on death's pillow slumbers,
Be re-inspired with life, though golden numbers
Of bliss were pour'd into his breast; though he
50Were sure in change to gain a monarchy?
A monarch's glorious state compar'd with his,
Less safe, less free, less firm, less quiet is.
For ne'er was any Prince advanc'd so high
That he was out of reach of misery: