Cromwell. Fleetwood, you're a child.
You, Carlisle.
Carlisle [rising.] Your triumphant head, my lord,
Is made to wear the crown.
[He resumes his seat.
Cromwell. Now, Broghill, you.
Broghill.I venture, good my lord, to supplicate
That what I say be for your private ear.
[Aside.]With Ormond's plot I all bewildered am.
In this bold drama, how discreet my rôle!
Cromwell's adviser, Charles's confidant!
Traitor alike, if I say nought or speak!
Cromwell.And wherefore, pray?
Broghill [bowing.] Reasons of state, my lord.
Broghill [to Cromwell, in an undertone.
Might it not be that we should treat with Charles?
What if you offer him your daughter's hand?
Cromwell [surprised.]To—the young man?
Broghill. Ay, Lady Frances' hand.
Cromwell.What of his family?
Broghill. You may be crowned
By the name of Oliver. You both are kings.
Cromwell.And what of January thirtieth?
Broghill.You give to him a father.
Cromwell. One may give.
But how restore?
Broghill. He would forget—
Cromwell [with a scornful laugh.]My crime?
He cannot fathom it. He would not see
The end I sought, and he is too debauched
To pardon me. 'Tis a mad scheme, Broghill!
