Arth. Nor churches, temples, still ye would not rend The altar vow'd to Heaven.
Mil. No, but purge
The living fire upon it, when the name
Is brutish and discolour'd.—When kings fail,
Let's bastardize the craven to his breed,
And hurl him recreant down!
Arth. But not destroy—
Mil. 'Twould heal the sight of millions yet unborn.
Arth. In this I am not with you; yet I grant
So far 'tis well. I trust a different end.
The king, that hath much noble feeling in him,
Will yield; and then we will give back again
His just prerogative—
Mil. It may be so.
Where is the high-soul'd Stratford?—The same weakness
That yielded there is obstinacy now,
To the last drop of the pride-tainted blood
That through the melancholy Stuart's veins
Doth creep and curdle—
Arth. You do make me sad—
Mil. Nay, there is sadness in the noble task
Appointed us. An hour past came Cromwell here
As full of sorrow for the king; as thou—
Hating the sour and surly Presbyter
And bitter wrath of the fierce Parliament.
He parted from me in an angry mood
Because I coldly met his warm desire
That Charles might reign again—
Arth. Indeed! Is't so?
Enter a Servant to MILTON, R.