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 Cromwell accurst, thy edict 'gainst the Jews Thou needs must expiate! Thou hypocrite! Fanatic! miser!
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What a shameful thing! This king, this lord protector verified My reckoning! Oh! do not speak to me Of crowned plebeians! in so circumscribed A sphere their minds are fixed! No brilliant fêtes, No games, no merry-makings—and no loans! And then what dealings one must have with them! You seize for their behoof a Swedish brig, They scrutinize your pockets and your fingers, And for the perils of the enterprise Leave you at most three-quarters of the spoil. Cromwell.Why, that is fleecing you! Manasseh. Ay, that's the word! Miserly kings! they know the difference 'Twixt sequins and bezants! Cromwell. 'Tis horrible! Manasseh.Your Cromwell! bah! Why, did he not, forsooth, Upon a time presume to lay a fine On me, for lending at some rate whereby I fairly doubled my poor capital? Cromwell.A pity 'tis. Manasseh. 'Tis death to honest toil. Wherefore should he, the tyrant, interfere, I pray to know? What right had he to close, To please his followers, concerts and balls, Races and theatres, where eldest sons, Giv'n over to the joys that there abound, Did heedlessly rush onward to their ruin? To rob them of that right is 'gainst all law. Vindictive, crafty, cruel, miserly,—