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 Art thou not weary? Has the sceptre, pray, Some hidden charm?—Reflect.—The universe Reposes 'neath thy sway; 'tis in thy hand, And 'tis of small account. Thy fortune's car, Whereon thy claims are based, rolls on apace, And splashes earthly kings with royal blood! Mighty in peace, victorious in war. And all is emptiness without the throne! Paltry ambition! Rochester. How he doth berate Poor Cromwell! Cromwell. Well, and if thou hadst this thing, This throne of England and ten others, too? What then? What wouldst thou do with it. Whereon Would thy desires fall? Must not man have An end in life? Thou guilty fool! Rochester. Ah! Cromwell! If thou shouldst hear him! Cromwell. What's a throne, in truth? A few poor boards, a stool beneath a daïs, Whereon the gaping multitude doth gaze, Changing their name according to the stuff That covers them. If velvet, 'tis a throne; If a black cloth, a scaffold! Rochester. Learned man! Cromwell. And are these things, Cromwell, what thou'ldst have? The scaffold!—Ah! with horror the mere word My soul doth fill. My head is burning hot. I'll open yonder window.
 * [He walks toward King Charles's window.

The cool air And sunshine will dispel my painful thoughts. Rochester.He stands not upon ceremony! Faith, 'Twould seem he is at home.