SCENE IV.
[4th Grooves.]
A rustic Garden, with an Arbour in F. A Table, on which are Books, Papers, &c.
Enter ARTHUR, U.E.R.
Arth. She's soul-less like the rest, and I am but
A tame romantic fool to worship her—
I will not see her more, and thus the faults
Which, from her beauty, seem'd like others' charms,
Shall give her semblance of a Gorgon—
No!
Rather her beauty will so soften down
In sweet forgetfulness of all beside,
That growing frenzied at the loss I find
E'en shipwreck'd hope were better than despair.
Here comes my friend.
Enter MILTON slowly, L.
Arth. Good even, Master Milton.
Mil. Ha! is it thou? my poor eyes are grown dim,
Methinks, with ever gazing back upon
The glorious deeds of ages long flown by.
Welcome, dear friend—most welcome to these arms.
Nay! it is kind to seek me thus—
Thine eyes
Are bright still; yet thy cheek is furrow'd more
Than should be; thou'rt not happy—Nay, I know,
Like all true hearts that beat in English breasts,
Thine must be most unhappy in these times—
Arth. I am so—
Mil. Thou hast fought well. I have heard it—