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 came of him.
Flor. The silent marches of the stars had clos'd
The slow retreat of that calm summer noon,
Ere I compos'd his gentle limbs to rest,
And left him where he lay. No crimson wound,
No dark ensanguin'd stain did sully him:
Yet had some fatal missile reach'd his heart,
That bled, as mine does now, within, within!
Lady Crom. How sad a tale; yet; all will still be well. Yield not to this wild burst of agony.
Flor. O, I was happy and I knew it not,
But jested with the heart that lov'd me well.
The sickening echo of each foolish word
I said to pain him comes to torture me—
Lady Crom. Cease, cease! Indeed my heart is sad enough. My daughter needs us.
Flor. O forgive me, Madam!
My grief seem'd thoughtless of another's woe,
And I that love her so?—I'll go with you
This instant, watch by her, and pray for all
This most unhappy world. Come, let us seek her—
Haste! Will she know me, think you? Lean on me,
You are fatigued with watching. I am strong.
[Exeunt, U.E.R.]
Enter CROMWELL alone, R.
Crom. How well he died, that liv'd not well—his words
Strike cold here. Kings have died ere now, whose lives
Were needless, hurtful to their people's good,
But none so meek as this. O Cromwell! Cromwell!
Hast thou done well! O could an angel light
The deepest corner of thy secret mind,
And tell thee thou'rt not damned to Hell for this,
The avenging act of horror—or that, inspir'd,
Thou wert the minister of Heaven's decree,
And that ambition drugg'd not thy design
With soul-consuming poison! I, this I,
Have done it—for what!—Which is't? To live and reign?
Or crown the smiling land with good? Well, both!
If I have sinn'd, it was at least for all.
The puny stripling calls not his love, lust:
The passions that we have in us may blend
With noble purpose and with high design;
Else men who saw the world had gone astray
Would only wish it better—and lie down,
In vain regret to perish.—
How his head
Roll'd on the platform with deep, hollow sound!
Methinks I hear it now, and through my brain
It vibrates like the storm's accusing knell,
Making the guilty quake. I am not guilty!
It was the nation's voice, the headsman's axe.
Why drums it then within my throbbing ear?—
I slew him not!
Enter PEARSON, L.
Pear. My Lord! there is one here Would speak with you—
Crom. Admit him. Am I not The servant of this country, to see all That come to me?—
[PEARSON goes out, and returns with BASIL. PEARSON retires, L.]
Basil. Health to the General!
Crom. Good Master Basil, welcome.
I am griev'd,
Most griev'd in spirit for your brother; yet
I must not pardon him. I have receiv'd
Your protestation—
Basil. I have done much service, Good service to the state; I ask his life, Not liberty.
Crom. It cannot be, and yet I lov'd him well myself. It must not be, [Pause.] Yet you have done good service. I am glad You do insist on it. I had not yielded To any other—but you have a right To ask this thing, and I am bound to grant it; I am glad it comes from you, his brother, here—
[Signs a paper and hands it to BASIL.]
What will you do with him?
Basil. I fear, my Lord, There is such treason prov'd—the colonies—
Crom. Nay! Let him where he will; but not to stay In England for his head—he dies, if found here Two days hence—
Basil. Thanks, my Lord, it shall be seen to. A brother's thanks—farewell— [He goes out, L.]
Crom. How different is
The aspect of these brethren, most unlike
The soul of each to his face—The brow of Arthur
So open and so clear, and yet a traitor.
Indeed, methinks the countenance, which oft
Is the mask fitted to the character
Of gross and eager sensualists, is but
A lying index to the subtle souls
Of villains more acute.
Come hither, Pearson!
Thou know'st me well. Speak, wherefore doubting thus
I feel my soul aghast at its own being?
Methought just now all Hell did cry aloud,
"Conscience can give no peace, the liar Conscience,
That knows not what she prates"—Out, out on
Conscience!
She that did whisper peace unto my soul,
But now, before the fearful shadow came
That since my boyhood often visits me,
And with dark musings fills my brain perturb'd;
Making the current of my life-blood stagnate,
My heart the semblance of a muffled bell,
Within my ribs, its tomb; my flesh creep like
The prickly writhings of a new-slough'd snake;
Each several moment as the awaken'd glare
Of the doom'd felon starting from his sleep,
While the slow, hideous meaning of his cell
Grows on him like an incubus, until
The truth shoots like an ice-bolt to his brain
From his dull eyeball; then, from brain to heart
Flashes in sickening tumult of despair—
As in this bosom.
Pear. 'Tis black Melancholy!
I've read of such, my Lord; it hath no part
With what men think, or do;—'tis physical—
A holy preacher feels the self-same thing,
That ne'er outstepp'd his sacred village round;
'Tis often nurs'd of this damp, noxious climate:
Most excellent men have suffer'd it—
Thou know'st
I have seen bloody deeds beneath the sun
Upon the Spanish main, when I was young.
Crom. What of them, say?—I thought thou loved'st not To speak thyself a pirate—
Pear. 'Twas, my Lord, Ere I knew grace, or my most honour'd master.
Crom. I trust thou art forgiven.
Pear. I'd not speak
Of deed of mine, my Lord. I did but think
That in the sunlit tropics I had known
The wantonness of cruelty; and seen
Aged men grown grey in crime, whose hair thus blanch'd
Show'd white, like sugar by hot blood refin'd.
Crom. What of this!—Tell me what thou knew'st of them.
Pear. I never knew desponding doubt or fear
Curdle the healthy current of their veins;
They never shudder'd at a blood-red kerchief,
But on their shining knife-blades, as they smok'd
On deck through the long summer noon, would show
The dents and notches to their younger fellows,
As thus—"This cut a Spanish merchant's throat,
With wealthy ingots laden; this the rib-bone
Of his lean Rib, that clutch'd an emerald brooch
Too eagerly, hath rasp'd—and here, d'ye see a chip?
This paid the reckoning of a skin-flint purser."
Crom. What meanest thou by this?—
Pear. I mean, my Lord,
The frequent gloom that clouds thy noble spirit,
Is born of humours natural to thy body;
And, as foul vapours blur the honest sun,
Hangs o'er the face of the high enterprize,
That hath enrich'd thy name, not harm'd thy soul.
Enter a Servant, L.
Ser. My Lord, good Master Milton waits without, Desiring presence of you.—
Crom. Pearson, go.
I would see him alone. Perchance his words
[Exit PEARSON, L. Servant follows.]
May ease my tortur'd breast.
[Rings a small bell. Enter a Servant, L.]
Ask quickly, how
My daughter fares, if she be better—
[Servant crosses behind and exit, R.]
Lo!
If I should lose her. Nay! it cannot be.
My thoughts seem driven like the wind-vex'd leaves
That eddy round in vain: fy, fy upon me!
Was not Saul doom'd? but David slew him not,
Yet Heaven led him through the winding cave,
Sealing the watchers' lids, and to his hand
Gave the bright two-edg'd blade, that in his eyes
Looked with cold meaning, bloodless it remain'd—
Would it were so now!
Servant re-enters, R.
Ser. She is worse, my Lord,
And raves incessantly; the doctors shook
Their heads when I did ask, and bade me tell you
There is no hope—
Crom. [Motions him to go.] Why comes not Master Milton?
[Servant crosses behind to L. sees Milton.]
Ser. My Lord, he waits without for aid to enter.
[Exit Servant, L. and re-enters leading MILTON.]
Crom. Good Milton, I am sick at heart. Think you the world Will judge me very harshly?—
Mil. Sir, believe
By far the nobler half of England's hearts
Will be yours, when long centuries have nurs'd
The troubles of these frantic times to rest;
The feverish strife, the hate and prejudice
Of these days, soon shall fly, and leave great acts
The landmarks of men's thoughts, who then shall see
In these events that shake the world with awe,
But a great subject, and a base bad king
Interpreted aright.
Crom. [Aside.] My child! my child!
She is dying, and condemns me—[to Milton] Thou art wise,
Prudent, and skill'd in learned rhetorick—
Think'st thou 'twere sad to gaze upon the look,
That sudden on the harlot's painted features,
Set in the stale attraction of forc'd smiles,
Darkens so wildly—that, like one amaz'd,
From the crack'd glass she staggers, to her brow
Lifts her wan, jewell'd finger—tries to think?
The wanton provocation of her features
Chang'd all to sickly twilight, blank dismay—
And when thought comes, to see the poor wretch quiver,
Her eyes' fire turn'd to water—those blue eyes,
Where once sweet fancies woven danc'd in fight—
To see the Present, Future, Past, appal her?—
The Spectre of her grown up life arise
Ever between her childhood's innocent dawn,
And the lost thing, herself—to see her choke
Upon her scanty food?—see grim Despair
Clutch her polluted bosom?—see her teeth,
Pearls that have outliv'd their neglected home,
Shine whiter in that ruin?—
Mil. 'Twere a sight To bid the palsied heart of Lewdness grieve, Youth grow a hermit, Age old vices leave!
Crom. Yet hast thou ne'er beheld the thing, I say?—
Thou answerest me not. I know thy life;
'Twas ever pure; still thou art of this world,
And so hast read their living epitaph,
Whose souls being buried in lust's grave, at night
Their mortal frames walk forth—reversing death.
I ask thee, then, dost thou not know the thing
That I have painted?
Mil. [Aside.] Is his mind distraught? [Aloud.] I have seen this, and more. What of it?
Crom. Thus! Shall he that caus'd it suffer?
Mil. On his Mood Vampires should batten—
Crom. Yet, 'tis like she met
His guilty thought half-way; 'twas in the course
Of nature, when the blood is hot. Contention
Led both to the encounter. When youth sins,
Reason flies daunted—to return with arms
Poison'd and terrible.—
Mil. The lean excuse Of whirlwind Passion's victims. Homicide, Murder, theft, rapine, plead it—
Crom. Think you then,
Should one array'd in reasoning manhood's arms
Have done this? Were the victim bright and good,
Round whose young heart sweet household fancies play'd,
Each natural thought of her enthusiast mind
Pure as the snow that softly veils the earth
'Tween Christide eve and morning white-enrob'd;
And yet her sum of suffering were great
As that, which I have painted for the child
Of sin and misery—her silken cheek
Defil'd by ashen trace of furrowing tears,
Her sinless eye dim as a Magdalen's;
And he that caus'd it lov'd her as a father,
Knowing no fiery passion, unchaste thought,
To rob him of his brain, his heart, and then—
Mil. There's no such thing!
Crom. There is, I say, here! here!
Mil. Lord General, I stand amazed!
Crom. Judgment!
The Judgment! my good Milton. O my child!
My best belov'd, my sweet Elizabeth,
Is such a sacrifice. The cause how different,
But the effect the same. Thou think'st it strange
To pluck such image from remembrance forth—
And use it thus. There is a chain unseen,
Linking the human beggar to the king,
Virtue to vice; whereon doth sympathy
Like lightning play between the two extremes,
And so connect them. There is none can say
"I am not as that man in anything."
I spoke of one that was a woman, one
That died repentant, one perchance in Heaven!
My daughter's face, I tell thee, grows like her's.
Reason not on it. O! The fault is here
Why she lies stricken thus. [Touches his breast.]
Her tender frame
Pines day and night, her young life breeding, sapp'd,
Curs'd in the tainted thought of my ambition—
And she will die and sink into the grave,
Prey'd on by doubt and horror of her father!
Ere Hampden's death had seal'd the bond of strife,
Thou knowest not, how oft to quit these shores
With angel fervour she entreated me,
And girt by true hearts—all my soul held dear—
To seek a home in that far western clime—
Nay, start not at the name—America!*
Where boundless forests whisper Liberty
With all their million-musick'd leaves, and blue lakes
Murmur it, and great cataracts, that light
With flash of whirling foam the tempest's scowl,
To souls untam'd as they, roar Freedom!
[Crosses the Stage.] Ay!
Thus to escape remorse—
Leaving this work to God and to His will,
That I perchance too rashly made mine own,
And noble hearts had follow'd and I had sav'd
Her, so soon lost for ever! Is not this
A thought had madden'd Brutus, though all Rome
Did hail him saviour, while the Capitol
Rock'd, like a soul-stirr'd Titan, to its base
With their free acclamation?—
Mil. Was there not Another Brutus?—
Crom. Tell me not of Rome!
Why speak not of the warriors of the forest
Where I had gone, but for black destiny!
They triumph in the torture of their kind,
Their grinning honour must be stain'd with blood;
'Tis their religion to be feelingless.
Why dost not lead me through yon corridor
To gaze upon some hawk-nos'd effigy,
And say, "This Roman slew his friend, his brother,
His daughter—'Twas a great soul, and he liv'd
A thousand years ago, and this is reason
For thy warm daughter's death—that breathes and speaks
With dainty actions nestling round thy heart,
Woven in thine existence"—her, I priz'd
More than the rest, whose gentle voice was as
The harp of David to my gloomy soul—
Go! thou art wise; but here thy skill is folly!
Mil. I little dreamt, my lord! to hear you speak
So wildly and so sadly of the course
Of your most virtuous and ennobling deeds.
Think not I do not mourn the angel light
That beam'd upon your path, soon haply fled,
Flushing the sky with rosy winnowings
Of dove-like wings, a Spirit, to the God
Who gave her thee, and so recalls. She is
A pure devoted woman, and thy child—
Thus far I understand thy soul's repinings.
But so to start as shaken by a dream
From an unquiet couch, to grope in night
And wailing darkness, thus to storm and rave,
To mock the God of battles and thy might;
To let the rod that scourg'd the pestilent land
Fall from thy tender hold—I had not thought
Of this, and I had rather died than see it.
True thou wert less than father, more than man
To bear no sorrow. Yet should England soar
Far, far above the sad domestic grave
Of Cromwell's dearest love of kin or kind;
And the big tear, that in the eye will gather,
In him should only halo freedom's sun
With brighter lustre, holier radiance.
Crom. Speak on, the passion passes. Yet be kind,
Read not thy lesson sternly; for in grief
There is much tumult and forgetfulness.
When my son died 'twas different; though his death
Went to my heart, indeed it did, a son
That might have wielded England's destinies;
And now I cannot look beyond the night
Of mine own day (it is late evening with me
Already) for a soul to guide this people.
How bravely bare I his young, glorious death,
And when one died at Marston afterward,
I wrote his father bidding him rejoice,
And something boasted of mine own bereavement,
I said, "Forget your private sorrow, sir,
In this late public mercy, victory
Unto the saints." O bitter fool, to chide
A father so, when I might lose my daughter!
[A trumpet is heard without.]
Hear'st thou? [Walks up and down a moment.] 'Tis
Harrison. News from the camp
Forget this, honour'd friend! [To Milton.]
Mil. I will, I do!
Crom. Now I could hew my way
Amidst a thousand. Give me my steel cap,
My sword and iron greaves, my vant-braces:
I will array in proof.
What is the shock
Of living squadrons to the armed thoughts,
Whose dark battalions I have just now quell'd?
I would the clouds of battle roll'd around
This moment. Lo! my spirit is reviv'd
Like Samson's, when he drank at Ramath-lehi—
Enter IRETON and IRONSIDES, L.
What is it?
Ire. Mutiny! The soldiers swear That they will have their right—
Crom. Their right, said'st thou?
Come, Ireton, you and I will give them it;
But, by the Lord, they'll wish for wrong again
Ere I have done with them.
Ire. 'Twere best to take Your faithful guard—
Crom. I'll take none. What! They are
Mine own. I'll deal with them.
If thou dost fear,
Son Ireton, stay behind. What! be afraid
Of my own rascals I have drill'd and led
So frequently?
Come on, I did but need
This pretty farce to stir me. Mutiny!
I'll strike the leaders' heads off, at the head
Each of his column—
Follow me, son Ireton!
No other—
[Exit CROMWELL and IRETON, L. The guard look amazed.]
Mil. Who thus seeing him, shall say, This man is not Heaven's chosen instrument? [Exit. L.]
[The Ironsides follow Milton.]
SCENE II.
[1st Cut.] [3rd Grooves.]
Near the Tower. A Street in London.
People are seen gazing from windows and balconies. Slow military music is heard behind the scenes. It gradually approaches U.E.L. Enter a procession of Soldiers, in the midst ARTHUR bare-headed. He looks up to a balcony, where FLORENCE is standing—she waves a handkerchief and throws it to him. He kisses it, and placing it in his bosom, smiles, then slowly exeunt, U.E.R.
Enter BASIL hurriedly, L. FLORENCE comes from the door of the house to meet him. She is dressed in a white robe.
Bas. Well, madam, how is it! To live or die?
Flor. Oh! hasten, hasten. They are gone; you may Fall down, be stopp'd, give me the pardon—quick!
Basil. No! I think not. I'll take it. Think you of Your promise—will you keep it?
Flor. Yes! yes! if I live A month, I will be thine.
Basil. Tis well! I go:
I am a little lame, but shall be there,
I do protest, in time. They give some moments
To stale device of prayer; as if they car'd
For him they slay—What! anxious? So am I,
That have so great a stake in this event,
To save a brother and to gain a wife—
[Kisses the tips of his fingers.]
A rivederci, as the Italian saith. [Goes out, U.E.R.]
Flor. The hands of yonder clock do pierce my heart
Like daggers till he comes. O God! forgive me,
Let me but know him safe, and die of joy,
Ere I have time to think upon the rest.
Enter ELIZABETH, L., as if just risen. At the same time, WILLIAM and the HOST, accompanied by a Guard, pass by, from L. to U.E.R.
Will. This way, this way!
Eliz. Do you not hear the hollow bell still tolling? Hark!
Flor. There is no sound now—
Eliz. If my father said
He should not die, it was to comfort me;
Do not believe them, if they tell you so.
Give me your arm unto the scaffold, girl.
[Florence hesitates.]
Jealous?—Is this a time?—What!—
[Two or three Attendants come in.]
Then I'll go
Alone— [She takes one of her Attendants by the arm.]
Flor. Nay, dear Elizabeth! his life Is sav'd—
Eliz. Believe them not; wilt thou not come? Nay, then! [Exit with Ladies, U.E.R.]
Flor. What means her passion? He comes not!
My heart grows chill—
Would I might follow her.
I promis'd not. Did I not see the pardon.
O, this is dreadful!
Re-enter BASIL, U.E.R.
Distant shouting is heard.
Basil. Hear you there? He lives!
Flor. [Falls on her knees.] O Heaven! I thank thy gracious mercy.
Basil. Now! Remember thou art pledged to be my bride.
Flor. Have I then sav'd his life, to torture him With base destruction of the thing he loves?
Basil. Give me thine hand.
Flor. No! no! There is a portal
By which the trembling victim may escape
From thy fierce tiger gripe—There is a way
Unto the weak, and though a giant grasp,
He shall but seize with eager cruel hand
The white reflection other fluttering robe,
Leaving her pure and undefil'd to Heaven—
Angels have whisper'd it to me—
Basil. Forsworn?—
Flor. Nay! traitor to thy God and king! My hand I've pledg'd thee ere a short month have elaps'd, And thou shalt claim it then, if then thou wilt.
Basil. What mean'st thou, maiden? There is a strange light
In the sweet lustre of thy thrilling eye,
There is a bright spot on thy velvet cheek;
Thy throat of arched fall is now thrown back,
As one had check'd a white Arabian steed;
Thy nostril wide dilates, Sibylline, grand;
Thy moist and crimson lip tempts wildly—come!
For thou art beautiful, and thy light step
Shall on the hills be glorious, when thou'rt given
A help-mate unto Israel—
Flor. Never!
Basil. How?— Hast thou not sworn?
Flor. There is a point where all
That binds the struggling wretch to aught on earth,
Be it a bond of hate and grief like mine,
Or sweet communion of young hearts that love,
Be it a sacrifice to infamy, or pride
Of mothers in their offspring, or the work
Of master-spirits' high philosophy,
Doth rank with things that were—
Basil. Thou speakest riddles.
Flor. A colder hand than thine is on my heart, I am another's bride! A month must pass Ere thou can'st claim me. Was not that the bond?
Basil. In these brisk times, a month goes quickly by.
Flor. Within a week I'll wed, but not with thee. Pray, sir, go hence, you do distract my thoughts From my lov'd bridegroom.
Basil. Speak, whom mean'st thou?
Flor. Death.
A thousand deaths, ere wed with thee. Dost hear?
I am faint. Lo! thy cruel, eager gaze
Grows grimly dark and indistinct. Pray Heaven
I shall not see it any more. Farewell,
I pardon thee.
Basil. Not so! May curses blight me, If I do lose thee thus. [Seizes her.]
Flor. Help!
Basil. Wilt thou budge Thus from thy promise?—Nay then—
Flor. Help! O help!
Enter ARTHUR, Soldiers, WILLIAM, HOST, &c., U.E.R. After them WYCKOFF, who stands at a little distance. Loud cries of "Pardon, a free pardon from the Protector."
Basil. What does this mean? Look to your prisoner: seize him.
An Officer. [Seizing Basil.] In the Protector's name, we do!
Basil. Away! Let go!
An Officer. [Points to Arthur.] 'Twere best ask him for mercy. 'Tis For him to say—
Will. Ay, ask us, ask me!—Hanging is too good for you. You are found out, and [points to the Host] 'twas this blessed old fool that has undone you. Yes, you may look, but your hair will not curl any longer. Your plot is discovered. Noll knows all, and will only spare your life on condition of the colonies. [During this time Florence and Arthur are locked in each other's arms.] Look there! There is happiness—there's fish-hooks and broken glass bottles and tin-tacks in your gullet. Stomach that. Tol de rol!
Host. While now they are here, I have a great mind to charge that Wyckoff with my little bill!
Basil. O guilt, guilt, guilt!
Success ne'er lit yet on thy feeble brow,
But ever mock'd thee with dissembling leer,
Whilst at thy feet graves open, at thy heart
Remorse points daggers, and thou walk'st the world,
Blood on thine hand and fever in thine eye,
Friendless, by that thou lovest scorn'd the most.
Arthur. [To Florence.] Thou wilt live now?
Flor. I would have died for thee,
Joy doth not kill! [Points to BASIL.]
O, order them to free him;
He is thy brother, would have sav'd thee, though
For a base guerdon; yet he would have sav'd thee.
An Officer. We cannot free him!
Basil. [Points to Wyckoff.] Why not take him too?— He is guiltier than I am.—
Wyck. [Aloud.] Traitor! O Thou most pernicious traitor. [Aside.] Damn him, coward! He will tell all, unless I stop it thus.
[Draws his sword.]
This for the Commonwealth! [Stabs BASIL.]
Basil. O, I am kill'd! Will ye see this?— [To Arthur.] Revenge me, some of you!
[Falls into the Soldiers arms and is borne off, U.E.R.]
Officer. [Points to WYCKOFF.] Seize him, ye have a warrant for his life. The scaffold were defil'd. Unto the gallows!
[WYCKOFF is borne off struggling.]
Wyck. 'Twas for the state! O mercy! Arthur Walton! He would have slain you! Mercy! mercy—
Arth. [Supporting Florence.] Heaven! How just and awful these thy punishments.
Enter CROMWELL attended, L.
Crom. I did you wrong, yet eagerly excused The death I thought you merited.
Arth. My Lord,
I owe no malice, and I wish you well,
As you shall deal with England, whose sad shores
I fain would quit awhile with her I love,
After these heavy griefs.
Crom. And you will leave me?
I would it were not so; for all around
I am hemm'd in by doubters. Perfidy
Makes mouths at me. Suspicion rears her head,
Hissing upon my path. And my friends drop off,
Leaving a sting behind!
Stay! Arthur Walton,
England doth bid thee stay!
Arth. I came here, when
A king did threaten England's liberties,
Her charter'd rights. He cannot threaten now.
His power has pass'd to others. I am not
Ambitious. If they use it well, 'tis well,
And I am needed not—
Crom. [Crosses to R.] Farewell, then, Sir;
But not, I trust, for ever. Go, in peace,
Amid the voices of the nations hear and note
What they shall say of England and of Cromwell.
Farewell, sweet lady, pray for her and me.
[To FLORENCE.]
Come, I have business, both of you, farewell!
[Exeunt all, but WILLIAM and HOST.]
Host. Confess now, I have done well in discovering these villanies.
Will. Ay, thou art an Eldorado of cunning.
Host. Herein you see the man of experience: I did not rush to tell it all directly.
Will. No, indeed, thou didst not, and had I not been there to extract the pearl of discovery from the jaw-bone of ignorance with the forceps of discernment, my Master by this time had been sped.
Host. Why, I was in the very nick of time. I am older than thou art.
Will. Thy experience did ever squint, and the obliquity of the mind grows worse with years. Yet I grant thee, as it hath happened, thou hast been equal to the occasion, which is true greatness, and that thou art great no one who looks at thee can deny. I am glad that Wyckoff hath at length paid his long reckoning.
Host. But he hath not, he hath not!
Will. Did you not see them take him?—
Host. Tis all very well to jest, but I have often seen, that when a poor man is defrauded, first there is no justice whatsoever, and again, if there be any, it is in this wise, that, while the wrong-doer suffers by the Law, the Law swallows up the simple desired thing, which is restitution. The Law takes the money, the Law disposes of the chattels, and finally, Jack Ketch, who is the Law's Ancient and most grim functionary, lays claim to the clothes. There was more real justice, friend Will, in the little finger of the Law of Moses, than in the whole right arm and sword of our boasted English trull, and you may throw her scales and blind-man's-buff frippery into the bargain.
Will. Stop, stop, thou art struck with an apoplexy of sense. Wisdom peeps through both thine eyes, like the unexpected apparition of a bed-ridden old woman at a garret window. Thou art the very owl of Minerva, and the little bill, that thou ever carriest with thee, is given thee for this purpose, to peck at man's frailty in the matter of repayment. Come, thou art in danger. I must have thee bled.
Host. I tell thee I have bled, as much as e'er a kettle-pated fellow of them all in these wars. I am defunct of nearly all my substance.
Will. Substance? Why there is scarcely a doorway thou canst pass through; and if one of Hell's gate-posts be not put back a foot or two, thou wilt be left, at thy latter end, like a huge undelivered parcel in the lumber-room of Charon.
Host. I know not any carrier of that name, but 'tis ill twitting a man, when he is in earnest, and did I not love thee, and were this not a day of rejoicing, thou shouldest drink no more out of mine own silver flagon.
Will. Nay, I meant not to offend thee. Come, we part soon. My master will pay thee thrice that thou hast lost by this captain.
Host. Pish! I care not for ten times the money. Thou understandest not the feelings of a tradesman.
Will. Come along, come along. The boat stays under the bridge. Mistress Barbara is already on board the ship, and swears that tar is the perfumery of Satan. Come, I may never see thee again, and although we shall not moisten our parting with tears, it would scarcely, methinks, be appropriate that we should say to each other "God be with you!" thirsting. [Exeunt.]