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 This Cromwell 's by his fortune stricken blind; As 'twere an Attila made by a Machiavel. Did he himself not aid us, our vain wrath Would spend itself in efforts profitless To undermine his power 'mongst the people. 'Tis he alone who hath himself undone By understanding not that he hath changed The ground whereon his feet were wont to rest; That from his natal soil if he comes forth, 'Tis but to die; and that, when he is king, No longer is he more than a mere man. As one who 's dead, he doth expose himself To blows from every side. The multitude, His bulwark once, comes now to swell our ranks; Alone he signs the fatal ordinance That sunders them. In giving us the people He gives to us the source of his great power. Oppressed, downtrodden, they are fain to be, But always in accordance with the law, By a protector, never by a king. To a plebeian tyrant in good time The people may become enured. Though he Were wickeder than Herod, Oliver As lord protector seems to them to be The only man whose uncrowned brow can bear The ever-varying burden of the state. But let that brow assume the diadem, And all is changed; no longer is he aught In this good people's eyes, who love him well, Save a king's head, the headsman's destined spoil.

Well said. Joyce.Our swords to-day have left their scabbards;