It is pleasant to be the king.
And unlike many enjoyable
things,
such as pudding or painting or waltzing,
it never ceases to
be so.
You might suppose that one gets tired
of being
the king, but you'd be wrong about that.
Only someone who isn't
the king ever says
to himself 'being king would be nice,
but all that endless
flattery and frippery
and flouncing about in ermine would
get old after
a while.'
You think that because you haven't flounced
around
in ermine with a turkey leg in one hand
and a tankard of claret in the other while listening
to
your courtiers compete to pay you the biggest
compliment. The five hundred and thirty-third
turkey
leg is every bit as filling as the first;
and hearing 'His Majesty looks especially fit and
manly this morning' will ring just as true tomorrow
as it did this
morning. Earth, sky, fire, wisdom,
knowledge, oceans, stars; all crumble, vanish,
wink
away. But majesty, sweet majesty, endures.
