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 I, English born, good lack! did shatter crowns. Though ne'er I've worn one, well I know their weight. What! quit the camp I dwell in, for a court! For a sceptre change my sword, my helmet for A crown?—Go to! Am I a child, forsooth? Think ye that I was born but yesterday? That gold weighs more than iron, know I not? Build me a throne! Why, 'tis to dig my grave. Ah! Cromwell knows too well how soon one falls, To seek to sit thereon! And, furthermore, How quickly, 'neath the weight of carking care, Do wrinkles gather on those weary brows, Begirt with flowers! Each flower conceals a thorn. The crown 's their death; black care envelopes them; It changes to a tyrant the most mild Of men, and weighing heavily on kings It causes them to weigh on all their subjects. The people marvel at it, and renounce Their own just rights, that they may count the gems Wherewith it gleams; but with what sympathy For them who bear the burden they would quiver, Could they but see the face, and not the crown! The weight disturbs their brain, and soon their hands The reins entangle of the tottering state. O! take away that odious, hateful symbol! Too often doth it fall from off the brow And veil the eyes.— [In a tearful voice.]What should I do with it? For power ill-born, I live in innocence, Simple of heart. If I, with sling in hand, Have watched the fold; if I, when breakers threatened, Have ta'en the helm, 'twas for the common good I sacrificed myself. Why did I not In my own humble station live my life?