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 him away, throws himself on his knees and holds out his clasped hands to. Mercy, my lord! Cromwell.What! from the lash? Go to! have done with this. Is't not the function of thy cringing back? Lashed for thy King! thou servest the good cause. Martyr thou 'lt call thyself; thou 'lt play Montrose.

Cromwell.O blessèd people, let us spare our foes, Who cringe and crawl. Even the elephant Has pity on the snakes he tramples on. May Heaven always guard thee from the snare, Ye chosen vessels! Rochester [to , in an undertone. They are earthen jugs.

I purpose, O my tried and loyal friends, To signalize this day by acts of grace.
 * [To the.

Let Carr, a prisoner in the Tower, be brought.

Willis [saluting. I give you joy, my lord. Ormond [surprised.] What! is it you, Willis? you, too, are free.—This man's a problem! To pardon us, he takes on kingly airs.