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 The Sergeants-at-Arms. Make way! make way!

Cromwell [folding his arms, to the Cavaliers. What is your pleasure, sirs? [Aside.]Suppose that they should sue to me for mercy! Lord Ormond [in a firm voice. We are brave men and we make no appeal For pity, mercy, favour or forgiveness. Who dies like us exults in such a death; It neither vexes him nor him degrades. In sooth, what had we to expect from you, A murderer, a low-born vassal, who, O'erloading his plebeian coat of arms With the hereditary crest and sceptre, Quarters the arms of England thereupon. Cromwell. What would you with me, then? Ormond. A single word. By which road purpose you to send us hence