had in the end been broken, and their scattered elements，
Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do? A king and his minions are really so few.
Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor! But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, or
The dire results which could not be inflicted. With no one to execute sentence, convicted
Is just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows. What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows!
To be killing each other, unmercifully, At an order, as though one said, "Bring up the tea."
Or is it that tasting the blood on their jaws They lap at it, drunk with its ferment, and laws
So patiently builded, are nothing to drinking More blood, any blood. They don't notice its stinking.
I don't suppose tigers do, fighting cocks, sparrows, And, as to men -- what are men, when their marrows
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