No, no, for all us servants of the state. Only imagine how my future chances Would dwindle, if the governor once knew I keep a Pegasus that neighs and prances In office hours—and such an office, too! From first to last, you know, in our profession, The winged horse is viewed with reprobation: But worst of all would be, if it got wind That I against our primal law had sinn’d By bringing secret matters to the light— FALK. That’s penal, is it—such an oversight? STIVER [_mysteriously_]. It can a servant of the state compel To beg for his dismissal out of hand. On us officials lies a strict command, Even by the hearth to be inscrutable. FALK. O those despotical authorities, Muzzling the—clerk that treadeth out the grain! STIVER [_shrugging his shoulders_]. It is the law; to murmur is in vain. Moreover, at a moment such as this, When salary revision is in train, It is not well to advertise one’s views Of office time’s true function and right use. That’s why I beg you to be silent; look, A word may forfeit my— FALK. Portfolio? STIVER. Officially it’s called a transcript book; A protocol’s the clasp upon the veil of snow That shrouds the modest breast of the Bureau. What lies beneath you must not seek to know. FALK. And yet I only spoke at your desire; You hinted at your literary crop. STIVER. How should I guess he’d grovel in the mire So deep, this parson perch’d on fortune’s top, A man with snug appointments, children, wife, And money to defy the ills of life? If such a man prove such a Philistine, What shall of us poor copyists be said? Of me, who drive the quill and rule the line, A man engaged and shortly to be wed, With family in prospect—and so forth? [_More vehemently._ O, if I only had a well-lined berth, I’d bind the armour’d helmet on my head, And cry defiance to united earth! And were I only unengaged like you, Trust me, I’d break a road athwart the snow Of Prose, and carry the Ideal through! FALK. To work then, man! STIVER. How? FALK.