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 Ormond.Stay! Ask me rather to protect your head. Your upstart champion, protector, king, Your Cromwell is more near his fall than I. Broghill.What do I hear? Ormond. Once more hear what I say: Consumed with spleen, and of the paltry names Of highness and protector all a-weary, 'Tis Cromwell's purpose, to be raised aloft To the King's throne, to be by monarchs hailed With the proud title of His Majesty. And in this spoil, which all do share, he takes The bloodstained heritage of Charles the First. And he shall have it all! his throne and bier. The King king-killer in his pride shall learn How heavy is the crown; and that, although One seizes it by craft and violence, It crushes oft the heads that it adorns. Broghill.What do you say? Ormond. To-morrow, at the hour When Westminster shall open for this king Whom hell is soon to consecrate, I say That you will see him wallow in his blood, Felled by our swords, ay, on the very steps Of the throne that he an instant has usurped! Broghill.Madman! the army is his suite, and aye That moving wall of iron protects his life. Do you know e'en the number of his guards? How will you force a passage through three ranks Of halberds and his mail-clad infantry, His heralds, clubmen and black musketeers, And scarlet cuirassiers? Ormond. They are with us. Broghill.What is your hope? To see the Cavaliers United with the Roundheads?