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 And from the shadow of my little cot Look on the while the hard-pressed tyrant fell? Alas! far sweeter to me were the fields, Where one can breathe at ease, be Heaven my judge, Than the unceasing toil of government; And Cromwell were a hundredfold more happy In guarding sheep than in dethroning kings. [Weeping.]The sceptre, say you?—Ah me! I have missed My destiny. That bit of gleaming steel Doth nowise tempt me. Far from envying Your general, my brethren, your old Oliver, Have pity on me! For my arm, I feel, Is growing feeble, and my end is nigh. Have not I laboured at the chain as long As need be? I am old and weary too; Is it not time that I should seek repose? Each day I ask it from the grace divine, And kneel and beat my breast before the Lord. I, seek the crown! What! I, so frail and proud! That wish—and I would swear it by my bier— Is farther from my thoughts than is the light Of day from unborn child within the womb! Away, this proffered increase of my power! Nought I accept—save the heredity. It is my purpose presently to summon, A theologian of eminence, That he may read my heart. I will consult, If need be, two. I owe to the Most High A strict accounting of your liberty, And making His law my own law supreme, I purpose to accomplish what is writ In Psalm One Hundred Ten. [Acclamations and applause break forth on all sides.—Populace and soldiers, whose hostility has