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 Thou dost exhaust thyself in vain. Cromwell [with a contrite air.] My brother, Vouchsafe to hear me. That my rule's unjust And arbitrary, I agree; but, Carr, In Issachar, in Judas, or in Gad, There's none on whom it weighs so grievously As on myself. I hate these vanities That make one long to fly to the world's end; Words that give forth a hollow tomb-like sound: Throne, sceptre, honours vain, bequeathed to us By Charles; false gods, who neither Alpha are Nor Omega! But I may not restore Abruptly, to this people whom I love, The power supreme, before the longed-for day When there shall come to rule this land of ours The eighty old men and four animals. Go, therefore, and seek Selden and St. John, Judges in law, and most profoundly learned In matters of religion. Say to them To frame a plan of government, whereby I may forthwith retire.—Art thou content? Carr [shaking his head. Not overmuch. These doctors thou invok'st Too frequently do utter oracles Of doubtful import. But 'tis not my wish To leave thee half content. Cromwell. Tell me his name, My other enemy. Carr. 'Tis Richard Cromwell! Cromwell [in a grief-stricken tone. My son! Carr [unmoved.] Ay! Cromwell, art thou satisfied? Cromwell [in utter stupefaction. Thus vice and blasphemy by slow degrees