The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these, laid in bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
Who, with a body fill’d and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread;
And but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,