Cromwell [aside.]O'erweening sectary, whom I am fain
To treat with gentleness, and to caress
The hand that stabs me! at my age and station!
[Humbly, to Carr.
What am I? a poor worm.
Carr. 'Tis even so!
To the Eternal thou art but a worm,
Like Attila; to us thou art a serpent!
Wouldst take the crown?
Cromwell [with tears in his eyes.]How ill thou knowest me!
The purple doth encompass me about,
But I've a gnawing ulcer at my heart.
Pity me!
Carr [with a bitter smile.] God of Jacob, dost thou hear
This Nimrod who takes on a Job-like air?
Cromwell [in a pitiful tone.]I have deserved the censure of the saints.
Carr.Go to! the Lord by thine own nearest kin
Doth punish thee!
Cromwell [surprised.] What meanest thou by that?
Carr [triumphantly.]One other name to thy list thou mayst add.—
But no—why speak? By vice the crime's chastised.
Cromwell.What name? Tell me the name! For such a service
Thou mayest ask, exact, whate'er thou wilt.
Carr [as if struck by a sudden thought.
In very truth? Wilt to thy promise hold?
Cromwell.'Tis equal to an oath.
Carr. On certain terms
