Robespierre. But to whom?
Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest,
Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors!
Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak!
A pause!—a moment's pause?—'Tis all their life. 140

Barrere. Yet much they talk—and plausible their speech.
Couthon's decree has given such powers, that—

Robespierre. That what?

Barrere. The freedom of debate—

Robespierre. Transparent mask!
They wish to clog the wheels of government,
Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine 145
To bribe them to their duty—English patriots!
Are not the congregated clouds of war
Black all around us? In our very vitals
Works not the king-bred poison of rebellion?
Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings 150
Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears
Of him, whose power directs th' eternal justice?
[[500]] Terror? or secret-sapping gold? The first
Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it;
And to the virtuous patriot rendered light 155
By the necessities that gave it birth:
The other fouls the fount of the republic,
Making it flow polluted to all ages:
Inoculates the state with a slow venom,
That once imbibed, must be continued ever. 160
Myself incorruptible I ne'er could bribe them—
Therefore they hate me.

Barrere. Are the sections friendly?

Robespierre. There are who wish my ruin—but I'll make them
Blush for the crime in blood!

Barrere. Nay—but I tell thee,
Thou art too fond of slaughter—and the right 165
(If right it be) workest by most foul means!

Robespierre. Self-centering Fear! how well thou canst ape Mercy!
Too fond of slaughter!—matchless hypocrite!
Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Danton died?
Thought Barrere so, when through the streaming streets 170
Of Paris red-eyed Massacre o'erwearied
Reel'd heavily, intoxicate with blood?
And when (O heavens!) in Lyons' death-red square
Sick Fancy groan'd o'er putrid hills of slain,
Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day? 175
Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all horrors,
And, like a blood-hound, crouch'd for murder! Now
Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar,
Or, like a frighted child behind its mother,
Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of—Mercy! 180

Barrere. O prodigality of eloquent anger!
Why now I see thou'rt weak—thy case is desperate!
The cool ferocious Robespierre turn'd scolder!