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 Elizabeth. Ah! but think of your poor mother. Your grandeur, unsure and ephemeral, Marred her old age; a thousand carking cares Impelled her to the tomb before her time. Numb'ring the risks to which you are exposed, Her eye, e'en as you rose, measured your fall. And when, as you your rivals overcame, London acclaimed each new-won victory, If the far tumult of the joyful town Might chance to reach her sluggish, palsied ear,— The guns and clanging bells and myriad steps, And acclamations of the populace,— Awakened with a start, she'd raise her head, Seek in her fears a reason for the fête, And tremblingly exclaim, "My son is dead!" Cromwell.Now in the sepulchre of kings she sleeps. Elizabeth.A blissful privilege! Pray does one sleep More comfortably there? And does she know If you will there rejoin her mortal dust? God grant that it be many years hence! Lady Claypole [in a languishing tone. Ah! I shall go to that abode of death Before you, father. Cromwell. How now! what is this! Still these lugubrious fancies? Morbid still? Lady Claypole.Ah yes! my strength is fading fast away; I need the country air, the sun. To me This gloomy palace is most like the tomb. In these long corridors and these vast halls A shuddering, icy darkness ever reigns. I shall be dead ere long! Cromwell [kissing her on the forehead. Nonsense, my child! Some day we will revisit our loved vales.