r the Ironsides, L. They ground their Matchlocks._

[_CROMWELL starting._] Another blow? no, no! there was but one:
He suffered nothing!

_Bowt._ Worthy General,
We are return'd.

_Crom._ [_Replacing his Cloak, after covering the
Coffin, as before._] Ha! have ye drunk well, fellows?
I knew not that ye had such cold work here.
[_Gives them Money._]
Now, on your lives, no word of this.

_Bowt._ May 't please you,
What form of Government shall we have now?

_Crom._ It does not please me, fool! to stand here prating;
Ask _him_ trick'd out in yonder lying state,
Who shall succeed him. [_Points to the Coffin._]
Surely, I know nought,
That am the meanest servant of the Lord
To do his work alone. See ye to yours. [_Exit, L._]

[_The Sentinels resume their walk. The Clock strikes
one. As it strikes, the Guard is heard approaching,
and whilst it is relieving them the Scene closes._]

END OF ACT IV.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

[_Last Grooves._]

_Table, Chairs, Writing Materials._

_Whitehall. LADY CROMWELL, R. and FLORENCE, L.
Discovered coming forward._

_Lady Crom._ R. No! There is not one of us he
would hear save Elizabeth, and since the day before
yesterday, as I tell you, she hath been in a raging
fever, and delirious; and, to-morrow, you tell me, it
is fixed that your cousin dies. Will not the Protector
see you?

_Flor._ L. He will not!

_Lady Crom._ Alas! poor maid. I know not what to do.

_Flor._ Madam, where doth your daughter lie!--

_Lady Crom._ In my room, this way--why, you
look sadly yourself--pale as a corpse.

_Flor._ Do I?--I would have it so. Think you it is
an easy death when the heart bleeds inwardly?

_Lady Crom._ Hush! cease talking so, child!

_Flor._ I do remember, journeying hither once,
On horseback, that I saw a poor lad, slain
In some sad skirmish of these cruel wars;
There seem'd no wound, and so I stay'd by him,
Thinking he might live still. But, ever, whilst
I stretch'd to reach some trifling thing for aid,
His sullen head would slip from off my knee,
And his damp hair to earth would wander down,
Till I grew frighten'd thus to challenge Death,
And with the king of terrors idly play.--
Yet those pale lips deserted not the smile
Of froward, gay defiance, lingering there,
Like a tir'd truant's sleeping on the grass,
Mid the stray sun-beams of unsadden'd hope,
Dreaming of one perpetual holiday.

_Lady Crom._ And was he dead?--Tell me what