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 That fool would never take the insensate pains, As I do, to confine the whole wide world Within his mind; no pregnant words, or sighs Instinct with meaning come from out his heart Like flames from the volcano. And his soul— Has he a soul?—doth slumber ceaselessly. When morning comes he knows not what he did The night before. He has no memory; Ah me! how blest he is! Never, at night, His mind disturbed by dark and gloomy thoughts, Hastening along some sombre corridor, Fears he to turn, lest he should see a ghost. He has no wish that he might be forgot, Nor that, in all the twelve months of the year, There was no thirtieth of January! Ah! wretched Cromwell! thou art envious E'en of thy fool. Thou art omnipotent; To what good end hast thou employed thy life? [A pause. Thou reignest; o'er the terror-stricken world Thy sway extends. How dearly dost thou pay For all this grandeur! Thou abandoned art By every party; by the people spurned; Thy family is with thy star at war, And, forcing thee to make its will thy law, Doth pull thee to and fro, and here and there, By thy king's cloak! And even thine own son! O God! I am abhorred by every one, And everything combines to overwhelm me. I've enemies, aflame with bitter hate, Throughout the world—and elsewhere, too, I doubt— E'en in the tomb!—But better days will come, It may be.—Better days! what do I say? For fifteen years past, my destiny