We have no mind to reach that Pole
  Where monarchs keep their icy courts,
Where lords and ladies, proud and cold,
  May do no more than smile at sports;
Nay, laughing, lying at our ease
We keep our court beneath green trees.

Kings' beds are soft and silvery white,
  While ours are golden straw or hay:
So let kings lie, while gentle sleep
  Attends our harder beds, when they,
Inside their soft white bedclothes, yell
That nightmares ride them down to hell.

Poor lords and ladies, what tame sport
  To hunt a fox or stag, while we
Sit on a green bank in the sun
  And chase for hours a faster flea;
Which blesses us from day to day,
With all our faculties in play.