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—