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?—