In Thrace the king was distinguished from his people after a very pleasant and especial manner; he had a religion by himself, a god all his own, and which his subjects were not to presume to adore, which was Mercury, whilst, on the other hand, he disdained to have anything to do with theirs, Mars, Bacchus, and Diana.  And yet they are no other than pictures that make no essential dissimilitude; for as you see actors in a play representing the person of a duke or an emperor upon the stage, and immediately after return to their true and original condition of valets and porters, so the emperor, whose pomp and lustre so dazzle you in public: 

               “Scilicet grandes viridi cum luce smaragdi
               Auto includuntur, teriturque thalassina vestis
               Assidue, et Veneris sudorem exercita potat;”

["Because he wears great emeralds richly set in gold, darting green lustre; and the sea-blue silken robe, worn with pressure, and moist with illicit love (and absorbs the sweat of Venus).”  —­Lucretius, iv. 1123.]

do but peep behind the curtain, and you will see no thing more than an ordinary man, and peradventure more contemptible than the meanest of his subjects: 

“Ille beatus introrsum est, istius bracteata felicitas est;”

["The one is happy in himself; the happiness of the other is
counterfeit.”—­Seneca, Ep., 115.]

cowardice, irresolution, ambition, spite, and envy agitate him as much as another: 

              “Non enim gazae, neque consularis
               Submovet lictor miseros tumultus
               Mentis, et curas laqueata circum
               Tecta volantes.”

["For not treasures, nor the consular lictor, can remove the
miserable tumults of the mind, nor cares that fly about panelled
ceilings.”—­Horace, Od., ii. 16, 9.]

Care and fear attack him even in the centre of his battalions: 

               “Re veraque metus hominum curaeque sequaces
               Nec metuunt sonitus armorum, nee fera tela;
               Audacterque inter reges, rerumque potentes
               Versantur, neque fulgorem reverentur ab auro.”

["And in truth the fears and haunting cares of men fear not the clash of arms nor points of darts, and mingle boldly with great kings and men in authority, nor respect the glitter of gold.”  —­Lucretius, ii. 47.]

Do fevers, gout, and apoplexies spare him any more than one of us?  When old age hangs heavy upon his shoulders, can the yeomen of his guard ease him of the burden?  When he is astounded with the apprehension of death, can the gentlemen of his bedchamber comfort and assure him?  When jealousy or any other caprice swims in his brain, can our compliments and ceremonies restore him to his good-humour?  The canopy embroidered with pearl and gold he lies under has no virtue against a violent fit of the colic: