MISS MITFORD.
He used to call me child,
His dearest child; and when I grasped his hand
Would hold me from him with a long fond gaze,
And stroke my hair, and kiss my brow, and bid
Heaven bless his sweet Camilla! And to-night
Nought but to bed! to bed!
Foscari.
King. [To Cromwell.] Sir,
Thou seest me with my children. Doth thine errand
Demand their absence?
Cromwell. No. I sent them to thee
In Christian charity. Thou hast not fallen
Among the heathen!
King. Howsoever sent,
It was a royal boon. My heart hath ached
With the vain agony of longing love
To look upon those blooming cheeks, to kiss
Those red and innocent lips, to hear the sound
Of those dear voices.
Charles the First.