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 Whistling while each knot they tie.

Hence away, ye dragons ghostly, Aspics, ghouls, who plunder mostly From the crows their fetid prey, Demons who for souls go seeking, Monstrous dwarfs with squalor reeking, Hovering flames o'er tombstones grey.

Don the robe patriarchal And the belt zodiacal, On thy fingers rings of gold, The amice, mitre conical, The purple scarf, and tunic all Of scarlet, with its dye twofold.


 * [Aloud, after a moment's silence.

A peril threatens thee. Cromwell. What peril? Manasseh. Death. If thou? rt determined to be king, my son, Thy death is sure. Cromwell.'Tis sure! my death? Manasseh [placing his finger on  heart. There will the blow be dealt. Cromwell [putting his hand to his heart. Here?