Cromwell. You much astonish me.
What mystery—
Filippi [handing him a gold key.
My lord, the key.
Cromwell. Give, give!
Whitelocke [to Cromwell, in an undertone.
Beware, my lord! full oft there hath been known
A traitor, by his master given charge
To strike a great man down, who bore to him,
As now to you, within an iron box,
Alchemic drugs or thunderbolts of hell.
The devilish contrivance would explode,
The victim be destroyed.—You are misliked.
This man hath crime writ in his very glance.
Distrust him, for it may be that this box
You were about to open holds a snare
Will cause your death.
Cromwell [to Whitelocke.] You think so. It may be.
Therefore, good Whitelocke, open it yourself.
Whitelocke [terrified and faltering.
My unexcelled devotion—
[Aside.] God!
Cromwell [with a smile.] I know
And profit by it.
[Aside.] Let us judge of it.
[He hands him the key.
Whitelocke [aside.] What courage one must have to be a courtier!
'Tis most embarrassing! death—or disgrace!
Ah! that's another death!
