"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." But crowns, I hear, are open at the top. The fear, the fret, the worry, and the frown Arise in such a head, but need not stop. On crowned heads the airs of heaven blow With due respect and soothing reverence; Whatever fever lurks in brains below, Through open crowns the breezes bear it thence. But, ah! what sizzling frets and torrid fumes, Like bacon frying in its own hot fat -- What fireless-cooker misery consumes The head confined within a stovepipe hat! |