No man is sure of
himself, ever. He can but pray for faith.
_Bridget:_
Father, you have done all that a man might do. You have delivered
England.
_Cromwell:_
I have said a word for freedom, a poor, confused word. It was all I
could reach to. We are frail, with our passions. We are beset.
(He prays at his mother's bedside, BRIDGET standing beside him.)
Thou hast made me, though very unworthy, a mean instrument to do the
people some good, and Thee service. And many of them have set too high a
value upon me, though others wish and would be glad of my death. But,
Lord, however Thou dost dispose of me, continue and go on to do good for
them. Give them one heart, and mutual love. Teach those who look too
much upon Thy instrument to depend more upon Thyself. Pardon such as
desire to trample upon the dust of a poor worm, for they are Thy people,
too. And pardon the folly of this short prayer, even for Jesus Christ's
sake. And give us a good night if it be Thy pleasure.
THE SCENE CLOSES
THE END
* * * * *
[Transcriber's Note:
The following text was printed at the beginning of the original book.
It is included here for historical interest only.]
Copyright, 1921, by Houghton Mifflin Company
Dramatic Rights in the United States
Controlled by William Harris, Jr
CAUTION
All dramatic rights for John Drinkwater's _Oliver Cromwell_ in North
America are owned and controlled by William Harris, Jr.
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