SCENE III.
[Last Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]
A handsomely fitted Chamber in London.—A practicable window in F.
Enter ARTHUR WALTON, FLORENCE, the LADY ELIZABETH CROMWELL.
Eliz. [To Arthur.] Urge not your suit through me, when she is here.
Give half Love's reasons that to me you gave,
Why she should not be cruel, and I think
You'll hardly find her so—[To Florence.]
Nay! be not scornful,
You know I can betray you—[Goes to the window.]
Flor. Oh, be silent!
Arth. Dear cousin, will you forth to walk? The day Is fine.
Eliz. [Running to the window.] I do protest it has been raining long.
Arth. To-morrow I must leave—
Flor. To-morrow, really? Shall you be absent long? Adieu, then, sir.
[Going.]
Arth. Distraction! I deserve not this unkindness. Florence, why spurn my love thus?—
Flor. Nay, I think But just escaped one brother's persecution, 'tis Too bad another should annoy me.
Arth. Pardon, Madam, my cousin; henceforth I'll not grieve you.
[Going.]
Flor. Stay!
Arth. [Rushing to her.] What is it?
Flor. Nothing, but I think you promis'd
To ride my horse; you know she is too gay;
Nay, 'tis no matter if you have forgotten.
It is no wonder, since you walked so long
With those two foreign ladies yesterday:
The youngest dresses somewhat out of taste
To suit our English fancy. Did you not
The other evening speak of English dress
As something prudish, not quite to your taste?
Are you going far to-morrow?—
Arth. They are not foreign, I do assure you; I have known them long, The daughters of my honour'd friend, John Milton.
Eliz. [Aside.] She knows it well as he does.
Flor. No? Indeed?
Arth. [Pointing to Elizabeth.] Ask her.
Flor. I am not curious, sir, to hear
With whom you walk; but, if you mention them,
Of course 'tis natural I speak of it—
Elizabeth!
Will you come here and answer him! he talks
Of one old Milton's daughters, when I'd ask
About the fashions.
Eliz. [With emotion, at the window.] See, there goes another
Doom'd to the block; the excellent Laud scarce cold
Within his grave—
It makes me heart-sick, girl!
To live, when just men die, that love their king,
And I, his daughter, his, that wills it so,
And does not stir to save them—nay, approves,
Condemns, and sanctions;
O 'tis dreadful! dreadful!
Arth. [To FLORENCE.] Is she thus often!
Flor. Ay, too often thus
Of late she suffers. [Runs to her.]
Dear Elizabeth!
There, Walton, go!
Arth. And may I hope?—
Flor. Is this a time?
Do you not see she is ill?—
You will return,
Ere long—go, call a servant!
[He looks at her, she waves her hand impatiently, he goes out. Exit ARTHUR, L.]
Eliz. [Points to the window.] Is it gone?— He was quite young. Think you my father sat In judgment on him?
Flor. Know you not he is Now with the army?
Eliz. True! true!
[Passes her hand over her brow.] It is o'er. Where is your cousin gone?
Flor. Who?
Eliz. Arthur Walton.
Flor. Oh! he has left.
Eliz. Your answer to him?
Flor. None.
Eliz. Out, flirt! I found you weeping, and you told me You lov'd him—
Flor. Did I? I'd forgotten it.
Eliz. Well, you will lose him thus.
Flor. Then, he's not worth The keeping, in my thought.
Eliz. You have done wrong. I know the business he is gone upon. You may not see him more—
Flor. I don't believe it, Although he said it.
Eliz. Girl! he hath to do A secret and most dangerous mission.
Flor. What! In truth!—I'll call him back to speak to you.
[Runs to the window.]
Ah! he has gallop'd off so fast without
Once turning. Ah! to danger—Oh, wretch! wretch!
Fool that I am. [Weeps.]
Eliz. [To FLORENCE.] Poor child! You love him, then?
Flor. Oh! yes, I love him all— All, for I am not vain. There is no thought Dividing the wild worship of my soul.
Eliz. And yet you spoke so carelessly, and trifled
With this the noblest and the best oblation,
A woman—but a poor divinity,
I fear at best, my Florence!—may receive,
The heart of a true gentleman. I mean
No creature of dull circumstance, himself
A mean incumbrance on his own great wealth.
How oft before their lovers women try
To seem what they are not—if true their hearts,
As thine is, apes not more fantastic show—
If mean and paltry, frankness is the flag
'Neath which they trim their pirate, little bark
To capture their rich prize—
Flor. Enough! enough!
I know it all, I cannot help it, if
He were here now, I could not choose but do it.
I have a head-ache. I must weep alone.
I pray you to excuse me for an hour.
[She goes out, R.S.E.]
Eliz. Poor girl! how needless is the pain she gives
Two true and faithful hearts—and I myself,
That never had the chance to love, or heart
To give away, yet seem to know so well
What it must be.—Oh, were I Florence now,
Could I have dealt so harshly with him?—No!
Why, one would think I lov'd him. She said so
But yesterday. Indeed I love them both—
Him for his love of her. Elizabeth!
Why burns thy cheek thus?—Yet a transient thought
Might stain the wanderings of a seraph's dream,
And thou art mortal woman. Oh, beware!
Dwell not on "might have," "could;" since "cannot be"
Points from thy past to thy futurity. [Exit, L.]
SCENE IV.
[4th Grooves.]
A rustic Garden, with an Arbour in F. A Table, on which are Books, Papers, &c.
Enter ARTHUR, U.E.R.
Arth. She's soul-less like the rest, and I am but
A tame romantic fool to worship her—
I will not see her more, and thus the faults
Which, from her beauty, seem'd like others' charms,
Shall give her semblance of a Gorgon—
No!
Rather her beauty will so soften down
In sweet forgetfulness of all beside,
That growing frenzied at the loss I find
E'en shipwreck'd hope were better than despair.
Here comes my friend.
Enter MILTON slowly, L.
Arth. Good even, Master Milton.
Mil. Ha! is it thou? my poor eyes are grown dim,
Methinks, with ever gazing back upon
The glorious deeds of ages long flown by.
Welcome, dear friend—most welcome to these arms.
Nay! it is kind to seek me thus—
Thine eyes
Are bright still; yet thy cheek is furrow'd more
Than should be; thou'rt not happy—Nay, I know,
Like all true hearts that beat in English breasts,
Thine must be most unhappy in these times—
Arth. I am so—
Mil. Thou hast fought well. I have heard it—
Arth. From Cromwell?
Mil. Yes, from him—
Arth. It is of him
That I would speak, as well as of this cause
That we call Freedom.
I have doubts of all
That urge this cruel war—Where is the end?
I fight against a tyrant, not a king
To set a tyrant up, or what is worse,
A hundred tyrants. Think you it may be
A struggle for the power they feign to hate!
Mil. What have you seen to make you think so!
Arth. Much!
The spirit of a demon host that strives
Each for himself against the common good,
Rather than that true patriot zeal of Rome
We us'd to read of—hatred, jealousy,
With the black ferment of the hungry mob
To gain by loss of others; and the aim
Of one man, more than all, seems set upon
An elevation high, as Hell is deep;
For such, if gain'd, the fit comparison.
Mil. The common error of a generous mind,
To do no good, and shrink within itself,
Sick of the jostling of the wolfish throng.
Your cause is just; though devils fight for it,
Heaven with its sworded angels doth enlist them:
So works a wise and wondrous Providence.
Arth. Tell me, what think you then of Cromwell?
Is he
Ambitious, cruel, eager, cunning, false,
Slave to himself and master sole of others?
Is his religion but as puppet-wires,
To set a hideous idol up of self,
Like some fierce God of Ind? Or is he but
A fiery pillar leading the sure way—
Arriv'd, content to die by his own light,
As others lived upon his burning truth,
And struggled to him from surrounding darkness?
Mil. There is much good in him, yet not all good;
And yet believe the cause he seeks divine.
Listen! this is the worst 'twere possible
To speak of him. He is a man,
Whom Heaven hath chosen for an instrument,
Yet not so sanctified, to such high use,
That all the evil factions of the heart,
Ambition, worldly pride, suspicion, wrath,
Are dead within him—and thus, mark you how
Wisdom doth shine in this, more than if pure,
With unavailing; excellent tears and woe,
He pray'd afar in dim and grottoed haunt
To quench the kingdom's foul iniquities—
An interceding angel had not done it
So well as this fierce superstitious man.
Arth. But if the king be prisoner and were slain?
Mil. I trust not that; yet kings are not divine—
Arth. Nor churches, temples, still ye would not rend The altar vow'd to Heaven.
Mil. No, but purge
The living fire upon it, when the name
Is brutish and discolour'd.—When kings fail,
Let's bastardize the craven to his breed,
And hurl him recreant down!
Arth. But not destroy—
Mil. 'Twould heal the sight of millions yet unborn.
Arth. In this I am not with you; yet I grant
So far 'tis well. I trust a different end.
The king, that hath much noble feeling in him,
Will yield; and then we will give back again
His just prerogative—
Mil. It may be so.
Where is the high-soul'd Stratford?—The same weakness
That yielded there is obstinacy now,
To the last drop of the pride-tainted blood
That through the melancholy Stuart's veins
Doth creep and curdle—
Arth. You do make me sad—
Mil. Nay, there is sadness in the noble task
Appointed us. An hour past came Cromwell here
As full of sorrow for the king; as thou—
Hating the sour and surly Presbyter
And bitter wrath of the fierce Parliament.
He parted from me in an angry mood
Because I coldly met his warm desire
That Charles might reign again—
Arth. Indeed! Is't so?
Enter a Servant to MILTON, R.
Serv. There is a messenger would see you, sir!
Mil. I will be back anon, pray rest awhile.
[Goes out, R. Servant follows MILTON.]
Arth. He should be right, that is so wise and good,
Living like some angelic visitant,
Dismay'd not from his purpose and great aim
By all the fierce and angry discord round.
So one in sober mood and pale high thought
Stands in a door-way, whence he sees within
The riot warm of wassailing, and hears
All the dwarf Babel of their common talk,
As each small drunken mind floats to the top
And general surface of the senseless din;
Whilst every tuneless knave doth rend the soul
Of harmony, the more he hath refus'd
To sing; ere Bacchus set him by the ears
With common sense, his dull and morning guide;
And stutterers speak fast, and quick men stutter,
And gleams of fitful mirth shine on the brow
Of moody souls, and careless gay men look
Fierce melodrama on their friends around;
While talk obscene and loyalty mark all;
Then good or bad emotions meet the eye,
Like a mosaic floor, whose black and white
Glistens more keenly, moisten'd by the stain
Of liquor widely spilt.
Re-enter Servant, R.
Serv. Sir! will you enter? 'Tis Master Andrew Marvel that is here.
[Exeunt, R.]
SCENE V.
[1st Cut.] [3rd Grooves.]
A Room in GURTON'S Alehouse. Night.
Enter WILLIAM, with a letter in his hand, S.E.R.
Will. So now, a letter from my Master to his cousin, and then, of course, an answer to that. I had need go get myself fitted like Mercury, with wings at his heels. To be the lacquey of a man that hath quarrelled with his mistress! And to know the final issue all the time, that it is sure to be made up between them. And to hear him mutter "the last," between his teeth, while sealing it. He was to have journeyed this evening, too, but the General Cromwell, with a face very red and perturbed, and a nose as it were of lava; his wart being ignited like the pimple of a salamander, hath been desiring to see him instantly. There is something going to happen among them. Well, in these confused days, Since I'm of those that have got nought to lose, Perchance I may step in some richer shoes!
[Exit, L.]
Enter the HOST, partly undressed, in his sleep, with a candle in his hand. He walks carefully about the Room, and then exit, U.E.R. On the other side, as he goes out, enter WYCKOFF and BASIL, S.E.L.
Basil. I thought I heard a noise.
Wyck. 'Tis an old house, and probably there is a Parliament of grey rats busy. I mind well aboard ship, as I did once visit the hold, where we had store of ingots and bales of wealthy goods, I saw them sitting. I ordered the long boat to be cast loose and got ready, but said nothing, except to a few; for I knew something would happen; and sure enough in three days was a leak—whew! I hear the bubbling of the water now in my head—here I am, you see——
Basil. And the rest?—
Wyck. Are there! [Points downwards.] In the long-boat we found a very old rat; a tough morsel; but we ate him, and drank sea-water. We were forced to throw the gold overboard! [Looks around.] Is there nothing we can get to swig now?—
Basil. They are all abed.
Wyck. I hate the sound of snoring, when I am about at night. It puts one in mind of groans. Shall I rouse the host?—
Basil. No! no! to business—first to hide these papers.
Wyck. Ay! and about thy brother.
Basil. You see these letters addressed to me in his name by Sir Marmaduke Langdale, touching the rising in the North, I will place them under yon plank in the floor. 'Tis already loosened. Then, when he is accused to Cromwell, who hath strong doubts of him—I have seen to that; besides, I know him, he doth fear for the king, and will incense them all—I will have them found, and then—
Wyck. Why thou art Satan's trump-card! Mind I have been thy faithful tool, thy messenger, and love thee—thou mayest as well sign me the paper thou didst speak of—five hundred a year—I will then eschew dice and go live virtuously with a woman and repent my youthful misdeeds. I am not like thee, to sin when I have plenty.
Basil. Yes! yes! but come, assist—[They lift up a plank, U.E.L., in the floor, and deposit papers; as they do so, enter HOST, still asleep, U.E.R. He goes to a cup-board, which he opens, and then pouring out a glass of spirits—drinks, and gives a kind of satisfied grunt.] Hold! we are seen. [Draws a dagger.]
Wyck. [Springing up.] The devil! where is my knife?—Hist! Do you not see?—he sleeps. I have seen this before. Did I not tell you of the girl?—I have heard them teaze him about this. [To Basil.] Be quiet, fool! [They watch the HOST; he takes a pitcher of water and pours into the flask he had been drinking from.] The damned old thief! I could have sworn it yesterday. He waters his strong drink. That's why I have not been so well here. I have a cursed cholic these three days, and missed the warm nip it should give my stomach. The poisonous old dog!
Basil. Are you sure?
Wyck. Look at his eyes. You shall see me flourish my blade before them, and he shall not wink. But don't touch him. [He goes up to him and menaces him.] 'Tis all safe; he will go now. [The HOST replaces the things, and goes slowly out, U.E.R. The clock strikes twelve.] Come, let us see where he puts his keys. [They steal out after him.]
SCENE VI.
[Last Grooves.]
A large apartment dimly lighted. Tables with writing materials. A practicable door and stairs in L.F., practicable doors, R. and L.U.E.'S, chairs, &c.
CROMWELL enters, R., very much agitated, followed by his daughter ELIZABETH. After pacing across and back, he stops short in the middle of the stage and speaks.
Crom. Have I not promis'd thee that I will save him, If he will save himself? [To his daughter.]
Eliz. Thou hast, dear father.
And then, with blessings on thy righteous name,
Rejecting all they offer thee, vain titles,
And selfish, mean, dishonourable honours,
Thou wilt return unto our natural home
At Huntingdon, and I will read to thee,
As I was wont. Thy hair then will not whiten
So fast, and sometimes thou wilt have a smile
Upon thy countenance, that grows so stern
Of late, I hardly dare look up to thee,
And call thee "dearest father"—
Shall it be?
Did the king speak thee fair?
Crom. [Gloomily.] Too fair, too fair!
E'en to be honest fair. Our good John Milton
Speaks bitter words. He saith Lord Strafford grac'd
Right well the block, that put his trust in him.
What saith the Scripture of the faith of princes?
Eliz. 'Twas not the fault of Charles that Strafford died.
Crom. It was his fault to sign—
He should have died
Himself first. Daughter! urge me not—I'll do
What the Lord wills in this. Go! mind the household,
Thou little Royalist.
Eliz. Nay! father, hear me—
Crom. Away, puss! Where are Richard and thy husband?
Eliz. I will not leave thee, 'till thou promisest—
Crom. As the Lord liveth, is it not enough
To struggle with a royal hypocrite,
To keep his feet from falling, 'mid dissension,
On all sides, worse than chaos, liker hell!
To be thus baited, by one's own pale household,
Prating of what they may not understand?
Thy brother Richard with his heavy step,
Ploughing his way from book-cas'd room to room,
With eye as dull as huckster's three-day's fish,
And just as silent; then thy mother with
Her tearful and beseeching look, that moves
Like a green widow in a mourning trance,
The very picture of "God help us all;"
And thou, with sickly whining worse than they,
Do ye think I shall do murder?
Why not go
At once unto the foe, and there be spurn'd
By Henrietta, that false Delilah?—
Or plot my death for loyalty? What is
A father in your minds weigh'd with a king?
Yet what is "king" to you? ye were not bred
To lick his moral sores in ecstasy,
And bay like hounds before the royal gate
On all the world beside—Go hence! go hence!
I would be left alone—
Eliz. O father, hold!
And pardon me for my distracted thought.
Thou knowest best, and I am wrong indeed:
I did but pine to see thee more with us,
To see thee happier—
Crom. My child, my child!
Mercy shall look with eyes like thine on me
Though justice frown beside. [Takes her hand.]
Look up, my child!
Ask what thou wilt except our country's shame.
[Cromwell hands Elizabeth off, R., and remains looking after her.]
Enter, R.D.U.E., MILTON, IRETON, BRADSHAW, MARTEN, HARRISON (who brings a saddle and places it upon the table), LILBURNE, ARTHUR WALTON, LUDLOW. Enter, L., Sir HARRY VANE, HACKER, same time.
Brad. [A letter in his hand. To VANE and HACKER, who have just entered.] So, gentlemen—Had you been here just now, you would have heard at length, this precious information, which our worthy General Cromwell, and Ireton here, have laid before us. A letter to the Queen, and secret intercourse with France—a rare betrayal, and richly worded too. 'Tis well we have friends at court, ere now it had been at Dover.
Vane. I thought he did stand pledged to all we ask'd.
Har. The royal Judas! [Cromwell comes forward.]
Crom. O sirs! It is but A king's prerogative to break his faith. We are not fitting judges of this thing.
Har. But we will judge. I say, whose dogs are we!
Crom. Peace, Harrison. Thou naughty traitor! Peace.
Ireton. Away with all, save vengeance on the deed.
Brad. [After placing the letter in the saddle.]
There! in that greasy, patch'd and reeking leather,
Lies a king's royal word, a Stuart's honour,
The faith of Charles, his most majestic pledge
Broken, defil'd, dishonour'd evermore.
Har. Why cry ye not, "God save our righteous King"?
Crom. Through me, he did proclaim, he would accept
Our army's terms. Alas! had we been cozen'd,
I, that believed his false tongue, had betray'd
The hope of Israel—-
Vane. It is true, indeed, He is the slave of his pernicious Queen.
Mar. I say the King of England henceforth is An alien in blood, a bitter traitor— What doth he merit of us?
Ireton. This! 'Tis right That one man die for all, and that the nation For one man perish not—
Crom. Ho! what? son Ireton.
Vane. Alas! indeed he merits not to live.
Brad. What say ye?
Ireton. Death!
Mar. Har. Lilb. Lud. Hacker. [Severally.] Death! Death!
Brad. I think, Sir Harry,
You said, "not live," the others all say, "Death,"
Why then we are agreed—
Stay! General Cromwell,
There was no word from you—
Crom. I thought to save My breath; ye were so eager.
Arth. Hold, a moment. I do desire your ears—
Crom. Our ears? Your years
Should teach you silence, sir! before your elders,
Till they have said—
We would hear Master Milton:
He hath to speak. [To Milton.]
What think you of the man,
The king, that arm'd the red, apostate herd
In Ireland against our English throats?
Was it well done; deserves it that we crouch?
Mil. Oh, it was base, degrading and unhappy,
To make God's different worship, damning means
Of an unholy war between his people;
To be the beggar of his people's blood,
To set that crown upon his false, weak brow,
His pale, insolvent, moat dishonour'd brow,
From which, too wide, it slipp'd into the mire,
To fit him ne'er again.—
Crom. A right good figure! Who'll pluck the crown from out this royal mire?
Mar. They say his queen, our foreign, English queen, Doth ofttimes antler him; perchance 'tis reason Why his crown fits him not.
Mil. Oh, it was base
To use such means to gain such selfish end!
So I have heard,
There have been men, in such a hapless clime,
As this poor Ireland, unctuous, wordy men,
With slug-like skins, and smiling, cheerful faces,
That, with their pamper'd families, grew fat,
By bleeding Famine's well-nigh bloodless frame;
Lessening the pauper's bitter, scanty bread,
Season'd with salt tears; shredding finer still
The blanket huddled to the stone-cold heart
Of the wild, bigot, ghastly, dying wretch.—
Thus, for a devilish and unnatural gain,
Mowing the lean grass of a Golgotha!
Sitting, like grinning Death, to clutch the toll
Tortur'd from poverty, disease and crime;
And this with Liberty upon their lips,
Bland words, and specious, vulgar eloquence,
And large oaths, with the tongue thrust in the cheek,
And promises, as if they were as gods,
And no God held the forked bolt above!
Turning all ignorance, disaffection, hatred,
Religion, and the peasant's moody want,
To glut themselves with hard-wrung copper coins,
Verjuic'd with hot tears, thin and watery blood;
Brazening the conscious lie unto the world
That it was done for hallowing Freedom's sake,
Until the names of "Freedom," "Patriot," stank,
Blown on and poison'd by these beggar lips;
That men had need to coin fresh words to mean
The holy things with stale use so defil'd.
Arth. But Charles hath not done this! Our poet friend, Full of the knowledge of all times, hath painted A picture all in vain.
Vane. But he hath done
A mischief similar—I see the point—
Hath he not arm'd the bigot, ghastly wretch,
To stab our English lives? hath he not sown
A crop of wild sedition, discord, hate,
Using the vain creed of the rabble herd
To wage this war against us?
Ire. Hath he not Tamper'd with France, our curst fantastic foe, And natural enemy?
Brad. Did he not first
Unfurl his bloody standard to the winds
At Nottingham, since when peace hath not smil'd
On all this tortur'd land?
Har. And are we not,
The servants of the Lord, betray'd, despis'd,
Insulted, wrong'd, by this false Ahab?—Come,
Let him stand forth before his peers—the people,
And die the death!—
Cromwell, what sayest thou?
Why dost thou lack speech?
Crom. I am mute to think
Of what ye all say—words—ye dare not do it—
I say ye dare not, though ye were to die
Not doing, what your gross and eager speech
Makes easier than to cough, or spit, or cry
"God save the King;"—but ere your thought hath fled
A rood, a yard into the empty air,
Dissolv'd is your high counsel, and Dismay
Whips all the noble blood that fir'd your cheeks
To the pale mantle of a creamy fear.
Fie! fie! ye dare not do it—nay, son Ireton,
What, Harrison so boisterous? keep your frowns
To look upon his trial, since 'tis so—
[Pointing to IRETON.]
Now hath he not a traitorous brow like his,
Perchance, that did stab Caesar? those were days
When men did e'en as much as they dar'd hint at.
Har. I said not stab, but bring him to the block:
Let God's eye be upon the multitude,
Theirs on the scaffold, the attesting sun
Shine on the bare axe and th' uncover'd head.
It is no coward act, lest he might sin;
For he hath sinn'd, until our very dreams
Bid England's tyrant die.
Arth. Oh, hear me yet:
I had not join'd you, save I thought he sinn'd;
I had not counselled, fought with you like brothers,
But that I deem'd your cause was just, and honour'd
Of good men and of God—I had not given
My childish prejudice and old belief
To carry arms against my country's king,
But for the sake of mercy and of justice,
And here I take my stand.
Crom. Why then stand there, till we come back again. 'Tis time to part—Come, Ludlow!
Arth. Hath he not
Virtues that might rebuke us all?—ay, virtues
More excellent in him than all his subjects, since
All Sin doth aim at Kings, to be her own.
'Tis hard for princes to outshine in worth
The meanest wretch that from his road-side hovel
Shouts forth with hungry voice, "Long live the King!"
Crom. O wise and excellent argument, that
There should be no more kings.
Why spoil a man
That hath a soul, a precious soul, to lose,
To make a king that cannot help but sin?
Let there be no more kings.
Arth. Then kill not Charles, For Charles the Second, reigns in England then.
Crom. Hum, perchance—
Arth. He hath done us no offence,
Ye would not slay him, if ye had him here.
I tell ye, banish Charles, this present man,
And none shall question, whilst his feeble race
And name shall dwindle hence, as shall arise
The fair proportions of our Commonwealth
On the decay of kings, not on the death
Of one weak monarch.—
What! doth any here
Wish that himself be king?
Crom. He raves!
Vane. Nay! listen! He hath much reason.
Crom. [Throws a cushion at Ludlow.] Ho! there regicide! Have at thee! [Confusion.]
Arth. [ Vainly attempts to speak.] Gentlemen, I say then—Hear!
[MILTON and others commence leaving. LUDLOW pursues CROMWELL, who finally runs down stairs, pursued by the former.]
Arth. [To Milton.] Nay! nay! my friend.
Milt. Another time. This is not seemly.
Har. Surely, doth the Lord Need us elsewhere. Who holdeth forth below?
[They all go but Arthur.]
Re-enter CROMWELL from the stairs.
Crom. I do protest that I am out of breath— Yet I commend thy reasoning.
Arth. But, my Lord.—
Crom. That rascal, Ludlow!
Arth. Will the trial be?
Crom. 'Twould justify us much.
Arth. But if he die—
Crom. [In a hurried tone and walking off.]
It is not thy affair, or mine—Why now—
Let's talk anon, I'm tir'd. Hast thou seen
My daughter Frances?—fares she well to-day?
Give me thine arm—I do admire thy reasons.
You see, these angry fanatics boil over;
'Twill simmer down anon—The king must live.
And yet he hath done much—wrought evil work,
And so—
[Exeunt. CROMWELL leaning on his arm and talking rapidly.]