[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.]