Serv. There is a messenger would see you, sir!
Mil. I will be back anon, pray rest awhile.
[Goes out, R. Servant follows MILTON.]
Arth. He should be right, that is so wise and good,
Living like some angelic visitant,
Dismay'd not from his purpose and great aim
By all the fierce and angry discord round.
So one in sober mood and pale high thought
Stands in a door-way, whence he sees within
The riot warm of wassailing, and hears
All the dwarf Babel of their common talk,
As each small drunken mind floats to the top
And general surface of the senseless din;
Whilst every tuneless knave doth rend the soul
Of harmony, the more he hath refus'd
To sing; ere Bacchus set him by the ears
With common sense, his dull and morning guide;
And stutterers speak fast, and quick men stutter,
And gleams of fitful mirth shine on the brow
Of moody souls, and careless gay men look
Fierce melodrama on their friends around;
While talk obscene and loyalty mark all;
Then good or bad emotions meet the eye,
Like a mosaic floor, whose black and white
Glistens more keenly, moisten'd by the stain
Of liquor widely spilt.
Re-enter Servant, R.
Serv. Sir! will you enter? 'Tis Master Andrew Marvel that is here.
[Exeunt, R.]
SCENE V.
[1st Cut.] [3rd Grooves.]
A Room in GURTON'S Alehouse. Night.