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 Gramadoch [in an undertone.]  We came in time: The play has not begun. Giraff [in an undertone.] Wilt hold thy peace? Cromwell.The fool has gone his way, nor did he dream That where his drunken folly found a voice A nation's destiny 's to be determined. How blest is he! For e'en in Whitehall here He an imaginary world creates. He has no subjects, sits upon no throne; He has no aching fibre in his heart; Over that guileless heart he never wears Buckler of steel—for who would have his blood? What need has he of court or guard? He's free; He sings and laughs, he passes on, unheeded. What recks he of the future? He 'll ne'er lack A strip of velvet for his winter suit, A place to lay his head, a bit of bread Earned by his quips and cranks. He sleeps all night. And has no ghastly dreams, nor need defend His life against the plots of paid assassins. He wakes and thinks of nought. How blest is he! His words are empty sound, his life a dream. And when he nears the goal where all things end, Death's scythe, which spareth none, will seem a toy, A plaything, to that grey-haired child. Meanwhile, His voice, if we would laugh, or haply weep, Gives forth whatever note we may desire, Chatters incessantly, and has a song For all emergencies. His animation Covers profound repose. The living toy Of other men, a hollow, echoing head, That babbles like a shallow, purling brook, He quivers at the slightest shock, more prompt To vibrate than the little bells he wears.