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 To my content, the scaffold of Lord Capel Is not so rotten that it will not hold A block for your head, too! Ormond [aside.] He thinks that he Is destined for the throne, and even now His gibbet's making ready!
 * [A pause.

Lambert [aside.] Well, 'tis done, And I am compromised! They've chosen me To lead them!—Why did I agree? What odds? I must go on. My fear is most absurd; Besides, who knows, in sooth, where one may go, When one draws back. I'll speak to them.

My friends, It hath of late been given us to know, That, in despite of our contemnèd rights, A man who doth himself Protector call Of England would assume unto himself The old hereditary royal title. Wherefore we come to you and summon you To say if it be meet that we chastise This upstart pride, and if 'tis your desire, Avenging by your swords our ancient franchise, Abolished or usurped, to doom to death, Without or grace or pardon, Oliver Cromwell of County Huntingdon? Now, speak, All [except  and. Let Cromwell die!