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Methinks I am Xerxes, the nucleus of the martial neigh of all the Persian studs. Like gilded damask-flies, thick clustering on some lofty bough, my satraps swarm around me. But now the pageant passes, and I droop; while Carlo taps his ivory knobs; and plays some flute-like saraband soft, dulcet, dropping sounds, like silver cans in bubbling brooks.