Brad. What say ye?
Ireton. Death!
Mar. Har. Lilb. Lud. Hacker. [Severally.] Death! Death!
Brad. I think, Sir Harry,
You said, "not live," the others all say, "Death,"
Why then we are agreed—
Stay! General Cromwell,
There was no word from you—
Crom. I thought to save My breath; ye were so eager.
Arth. Hold, a moment. I do desire your ears—
Crom. Our ears? Your years
Should teach you silence, sir! before your elders,
Till they have said—
We would hear Master Milton:
He hath to speak. [To Milton.]
What think you of the man,
The king, that arm'd the red, apostate herd
In Ireland against our English throats?
Was it well done; deserves it that we crouch?
Mil. Oh, it was base, degrading and unhappy,
To make God's different worship, damning means
Of an unholy war between his people;
To be the beggar of his people's blood,
To set that crown upon his false, weak brow,
His pale, insolvent, moat dishonour'd brow,
From which, too wide, it slipp'd into the mire,
To fit him ne'er again.—
Crom. A right good figure! Who'll pluck the crown from out this royal mire?
Mar. They say his queen, our foreign, English queen, Doth ofttimes antler him; perchance 'tis reason Why his crown fits him not.