Whether the thronéd Monarch weareth the crown
Which I know not whether to his belongeth
Doth he hence the sceptre sway?
Seasoneth he justice?

Daresay I he doth not
Will he then use his sceptre as a wand?
Where doth sit my awe? Trieth me conjure
Perchance a spell? a reptile, a sullied hound?
Is the gentle rain a quality of his?
I bethink this fro my thoughts, hitherto, about this
I beheld to these words no tongue, are the
Monarch's men his thralls or his servants?

Oft I waylay my tongue
Those of which are withal by my gnarléd heart not heed'd
Or doth the throstle sing with more glee
At daybreak than a twilight?
Brawl not my imp, nor my cherub; reserve my judgment

Crave not the sword when the bodkin fro ere thine is
That undiscover'd country, be that
Of calamity, be that of joy, be that of apathy
Tread not paths of new when those of old are
Far by an only single footstep, walk, be it
On the left, on the right, be it the one which
Straight forward leadeth, the one of correct
I have as until now not heed'd any signs of!

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