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 Thurloe [bowing with the utmost humility. By your ambition Fagg declares himself Aroused to opposition. Cromwell. Him I name The Sergeant of the City. Thurloe. Trenchard, too, Seems ill-content and sullen. Cromwell. Give to him A tithe on the estates of Lord Montrose. Thurloe.Sir Gilbert Pickering, the judge who takes From every hand, has turned recalcitrant. Cromwell.A baron of th' Exchequer let him be. Thurloe.The rest is my affair. If my lord will But let things take their course, this very day, Most humbly, in the name of Parliament, You'll be entreated to accept the crown. Cromwell.Aha! at last I have it in my grasp, That sceptre unattainable! My feet Have reached the summit of the mount of sand! Thurloe.But you have reigned these many months, my lord. Cromwell.Nay, nay! I have the power, but not the name. Thou smilest, Thurloe. Ah! thou dost not know The pit that covetous ambition digs In our heart's depths! How it enables us Grief, labour, peril to defy,—ay, all, To gain an end that seems so puerile! How hard to bear the fortune that falls short Of full fruition! And I know not why, But there's a lustre wherein one may see The sky reflected, that environs kings From olden time. Those words: "King "—"Majesty"— Are sorcerers. To be the arbiter