[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!