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 Nine months? Thurloe. 'Twas in October he was ta'en, And now 'tis June. Reckon, my lord. Cromwell [counting on his fingers.] 'Tis true. Thurloe.And through these months the poor man has remained, Dying of grief, cold, naked, and alone. Cromwell. Nine months! Great God! how time doth speed away!
 * [A pause.

And now, touching the plan proposed, what doth The close committee of the Parliament? Thurloe.Against you these have spoken: Purefoy, Goffe, Pride, and Nicholas, and, more than all, Garland. Cromwell [angrily.] The regicide! Thurloe. But 'gainst the wind In vain they'll struggle. The majority Is on our side; and in Lord Pembroke's words, A one-time peer who rides on every wave, The crown is yours of right. Cromwell [scornfully.] A doting fool! Thurloe.Colonel John Birch, alone, although he, too, To the majority is more inclined, By some vain scruple from the Bible borrowed, Doth keep the House of Commons wav'ring still. Cromwell.At the Excise there must be somewhat due To him. Prompt payment will be adequate To do away his scruple; so it be That the cashier err in his reckoning To his advantage.—Thurloe, as for you, Be pleased, if it be possible, to name The Holy Bible with more reverence.