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CROMWELL

A Drama, in Five Acts

by

ALFRED B. RICHARDS

Author of "CROESUS, King of Lydia," a Tragedy; "VANDYCK," a Play of
Genoa, "DEATH AND THE MAGDALEN," and other Poems; "THE DREAM
OF THE SOUL," and other Poems; "OXFORD UNMASKED;" Part II
of "BRITAIN REDEEMED;" and "POEMS, ESSAYS AND OPINIONS."

London:
Printed by Petter, Duff, and Co.
Playhouse Yard, Blackfriars

MDCCCLII

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

CROMWELL.

MILTON, his Secretary.

ARTHUR WALTON.

BASIL, his Half-Brother.

SIR SIMON NEVEL, their Uncle.

IRETON, Son-in-law of Cromwell.

HARRISON, )
DESBOROUGH, )
BRADSHAW, )
MARTEN, ) Parliamentarians.
LILBURNE, )
HACKER, )
LUDLOW, )
SIR HARRY VANE, )

WILLIAM, Servant to Arthur.

HEZEKIAH NEWBORN, Host.

PEARSON, Attendant on Cromwell.

WYCKOFF, Accomplice of Basil.

BOWTELL, an Ironside.

Cavaliers, Roundheads, Officers, Gentlemen, Soldiers,
Guests of the Inn, Poachers, Citizens, a Preacher,
Old Man, Trooper, Servants, Messengers, &c., &c.

THE LADY CROMWELL.

ELIZABETH, her Daughter.

FLORENCE NEVEL, Daughter of Sir Simon.

LADY FAIRFAX.

BARBARA, Maid of Florence.

Attendants, Women, &c.

CROMWELL.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

[1st Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]

A Lane near a Village. Afternoon.

Enter ARTHUR WALTON and WILLIAM, R.S.E.

Arthur. Give me your arm, my feet tread heavily;
The sameness of this scene doth pierce my heart
With thronging recollections of the past.
There is nought chang'd—and what a world of care,
Of sorrow, passion, pleasure have I known,
Since but a natural part of this was I,
Whose voice is now a discord to the sounds
Once daily mellow'd in my youthful being.
Methinks I feel like one that long hath read
A strange and chequer'd story, and doth rise,
With a deep sigh to be himself again.

Will. One would not think, Sir, how much blood had stain'd
Old England, since we left her, finding thus
All things so peaceful; but one thing I mark'd
As we did skirt the village.

Arth. What was that?

Will. The king's face was defac'd—the sign o' the inn
At jolly Master Gurton's—mind you not
How sad it look'd? Yet 'neath it I've been gay,
A time or two; 'tis not my fortune now:
Those bright Italian skies have even marr'd
My judgment of clear ale.

Arth. I'faith 'twill need A marvellous scant repair.

Will. One jovial day Of honest mud and wholesome English fog.

Arth. That sign! 'twas once the royal head of James;
Some thirsty limner passing made it Charles;
I've heard it said 'twas e'en our good Queen Bess,
By curious folk that trac'd her high starch'd ruff
In the quaint faded back of antique chair,
Her stomacher in Charles's shrivell'd vest—
Who in his turn is gone. Well, take this letter,
See the old knight; but not a word to him.
Stay, I forgot, my little rosy cousin
Should be a woman now; thus—full of wiles,
Glancing behind the man that trusts her love
To his best friend, and wanton with the girls
She troops with, in such trifling, foolish sort,
To turn the stomach of initiate man.
Fie! I care not to hear of her; yet ask
If she be well. Commend me to my brother;
Thou wilt not tarry—he will give thee gold,
And haste to welcome me—go! At the inn
We'll meet some two hours hence.

[Exit R.]

Will. Hem! I doubt much
About this welcoming.—Sad human Nature!
This brother was a careful, godly youth
That kept accounts, and smiling pass'd a beggar,
Saying, "Good-morrow, friend," yet never gave.
Where head doth early ripen, heart comes late—
Therefore, I say, I doubt this welcoming. [Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

[Last Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]

An Apartment in a Manor House.

Enter BASIL WALTON and FLORENCE, R.

Basil. [following Florence.] I'll break thy haughty spirit!

Flor. Will you, sir?—
'Tis base, ungentle, and unmannerly,
Because, forsooth, you covet my poor wealth,
Which likes me not, as I care not for it,
To persecute a helpless girl like me.

Basil. I will protect thee; but accept my love. Nay, do not frown so.

Flor. Love! say'st thou? Profane, Vile misuse of that sacred word. Away! Touch not my hand with your cold fingers—Off!

Basil. Thou foolish child, wouldst throw thyself away
Upon some beggar? were he here, perchance
Thy cousin Arthur? Come, our lands unite,
Be prudent—

Flor. Prudent!
Oh, there is no match
Half so imprudent, as when interest
Makes two, in heart divided, one—no work
So vain, so mean, so heartless, dull and void,
As that of him who buys the hollow "yes"
From the pale lips where Love sits not enthron'd,
Nor fans with purple wing the bosom's fire.
Prudence! to waste a life, lose self-respect,
Or e'en the chance of love bestowed and met?—

Basil. Sweet cousin, wilt not love me?

Flor. No! nor wish To hate thee, could I help it—therefore, go!

Basil. Well then I must— [Seizes her hand.]

Flor. For pity's sake; if not I'll fly thee and my home.

Basil. Ha! leave your father, Desert the old man in his hour of need? Fine ethics, truly. [Advances.]

Flor. Heaven! Leave me, sir—
There something tells me Arthur will return,
Whom you have cozen'd of his heritage,
And then he'll aid me.

Basil. [Aside.] Hath she seen him then, Or heard? I must beware—

[A Servant enters and beckons him out, L.]

Nay! none can know. [Aside.] Doubtless a message from him—I must see That they meet not, or else— [Aloud.] Adieu! fair cousin; I trust you'll find your senses yet ere long.

[Exit BASIL, L.]

Flor. Once more he's gone—O world! indeed thou art Too oft the bad man's friend.

Sir Sim. [Within.] Ho! nephew Basil, Ho! Basil!

[Enter SIR SIMON, R.] Where's my nephew? [To Florence.]

Flor. He has left
This moment, sir!
O listen, he is rude.
I cannot wed him,—Father! make me not
Unhappy—

Sir Sim. Nay! Thou know'st, indeed, my child,
How I do love thee. 'Tis a good young man,
And wealthy—no fool, like his brother. Fool,
Said I?—a madman, ape, dolt, idiot, ass,
An honourable ass to give the land
His weak sire left him, to our Basil—Ha!
He'll give none back, I think !—no! no!
Come, girl!
Wouldst thou be foolish, too? I would not marry
For money only, understand—no! no!
That I abhor, detest, but in my life
I never saw a sweeter, properer youth.
You like him not? Tush! marriage doth bring liking.
Ay! love too—you are young!

Flor. But, I've enough— Why wed at all?

Sir Sim. Girl! girl! I say, would'st drive
Thy father mad! A very handsome man,
A healthy fine young man—lands joining too!
Nay! I could curse you, wench! Not have him?
This
Comes from your mawkish sentiment. You are
No child of mine—

Flor. Dear father! Hear me!

Sir Sim. Mark!
You're not of legal age—I'll drive you forth.
I'd rather see you dead, here, at my feet,
Than baulk my counsels thus. Nay, try and see
If sentiment will feed you, trick you out.
O, who would be a father?

Flor. Have I not E'er shown you love and duty?

Sir Sim. Then obey! If I'd said nought—Oh! then you'd been in love With him, against my will—

Flor. No, sir, indeed! Spare me—I'll think—I'll try. Be kind to me!

Sir Sim. Well, well, child, 'tis not right to treat me thus:
If I were full of passion—harsh, unkind,
Your conduct were less cruel. But, you'll kill
The old man some day with your cruelty.
You don't care for him—not you; yet he acts
All for your good. Some day you'll think so when
You've lost him. Come, come, dry your tears, now kiss me;
I should die happy, were you married well.
I am old—all this agitation kills me.

Flor. Nay, father, talk not so.

Sir Sim. You should obey me. Your mother never dar'd oppose me thus; She swore obedience, and I made her keep it.

Flor. [Aside.] My mother, she died young, and yet too old;
The breath of her whole life was one long sigh;
She look'd like her own mourning effigy.
Her sad "good morrow" was as others say
"Good night." We never saw her smile but once,
And then we wept around her dying couch,
For 'twas the dazzling light of joy that stream'd
Upon her from the opening gates of heaven;
That smile was parted, she so gently died,
Between the wan corpse and the fleeting spirit.

Sir Sim. [Aside.] She looks just like her mother.
That pale face
Making its sad obedience a reproach.
If she would flout, sulk, scold, resist my will,
I'd make her have him ere the day grew cold.

Flor. Her very kisses chill'd our infant brows;
She pluck'd the very flowers of daily life
As from a grave where Silence only wept,
And none but Hope lay buried. Her blue eyes
Were like Forget-me-nots, o'er which the shade
Of clouds still lingers when the moaning storm
Hath pass'd away in night. It mattered not,
They were the home from which tears never wander'd.

Sir Sim. [Aloud.] I shall lose patience shortly. Oh, that gout! Here, girl, assist me. Would you see me fall?

Flor. Well, father, leave me to myself awhile. I would obey you if I could.

Sir Sim. That's right.
You know I'm rough, but then who loves you like
A father? You ought not to try me thus;
Indeed you ought not. Come, my dear, we'll go,
And find your cousin. [FLORENCE hesitates.] Hey! not now? Beware,
'Tis better now! no nonsense. Come, come, come.
You know you can do what you please with me,
But then you must be more obedient—so!
[Going slowly, R.]
Your hand! You do me harm, girl! with this strife.
Gently—your cousin never frets me thus. [Exeunt, R.]

[Enter BASIL reading a letter, WILLIAM following, L. FLORENCE returns, R., and steals behind them, and listens to their conversation.]

Basil. [With a letter in his hand.] Good William, thou shalt drink to me. [Gives him money.] And art thou still called thirsty William?

Will. What answer shall I bear to my master?

Basil. Thy master? 'Tis a good youth, though a wild—I hope he be well. Yet, frankly, I would that he had not just now returned. Our uncle is so violent, and will not hear his name. Arthur hath been so imprudent, loose, eh? William, I regret the old man hath heard of these things.

Will. My master is a very Puritan, sir!

Basil. [Aside.] Let his worth go begging, then—but he will soon be bad as his fortunes demand. Your poverty-stricken gentlemen were better on the coast of Barbary than in this civilized country. And whatever he do, he shall be judged harshly. [Aloud to William.]

I doubt not—Lies, lies; I said so at the time. Then you see my cousin Florence, a simple girl, trembles at his very name. You cannot wonder at it;—such stories have been told. Confess now, William, thy master hath been a prodigal. Doth he pay thy wages? Thou art scurvily clad. I have a place now—as it were.

Will. I desire no better, sir! I thank you, than where I am.

Basil. Oh! I did not mean unless you had left my brother first. Now, he desireth a thousand pound. Simply I have it not. There is no rent paid now. I would he had written rather than come. I will give him five hundred that I have, if he will pledge me his honourable word to leave England for five years. Are there not wars abroad whereby men live?—

Will. And die!

Basil. I would I could see him. But I have promised mine uncle not, and he cannot bear any shock to his health. Go, tell him this.

Will. Worshipful Master Basil! you will excuse me, but I must speak my master's mind. He saith he hath signed away his inheritance to thee, and that he expects this small gift, ere he comes among ye. He is but in sorry plight of dress, and he hath ever shown much affection for you.

Basil. Does he threaten? Hark ye, I owe him nought. Let justice be done. The fortune was mine by birth. Our father acted basely. My brother did very properly restore it. Shall he boast of a bare act of justice? He hath no claim on me. Shall I furnish his profligacies, his expenses, his foreign debaucheries, because I have gotten back mine own?

Will. You will not see him?—

Basil. No!

Will. Nor send him the money?—

Basil. No! except with the proviso I told thee of.

Will. You have no other message?—

Basil. No!

Will. Oh! Well, sir, I think the execution of my barren commission needs no farther stay. Touching that small portion of mammon wherewith thou wouldst endow my master's passage across the seas, in his name I will venture to refuse the gratility.

Basil. Wouldst jest, villain? There are stocks! Back to the beggar that sent thee. [Exit R.]

[WILLIAM going, L., FLORENCE approaches him from behind.]

Flor. Good friend! I have heard something of your discourse. I would fain see thy master.

Will. Art thou not his cousin, lady?

Flor. I am.

Will. He hath often spoken of thee far hence.

Flor. We were children together. Is his temper sweet as it used to be? Hath he grown taller? I have much to say to him. Is he sunburnt? Doth he wear a beard? They say much ill of him.

Will. Lady! believe it not; [aside]—for I affect much his society. [Aloud.] He is a good master and kind, though of a strange mood. For women, he cannot abear them.

Flor. Indeed! Good friend, nevertheless I must see your master. Bring me to him.

Will. I am going to the inn, where he awaits me. Will it please you to meet me opposite the old barn in two hours?

Flor. I will, I will, for I need his advice much. I am sore distressed. Here is for thee. Lose no time! [Gives him money.] Farewell! [Exit R.]

Will. By'r lady, angels! both of them. [Exit L.]

SCENE III.

An extensile landscape, with a road on the L; overhung with foliage. A Country Inn, U.E.R. Table, chairs, villagers sitting, a waiter bringing in refreshments during the symphony of the following

GLEE and CHORUS.

Cold, oh! cold the March winds be;
High up in a leafless tree
The little bird sits and wearily twits,
The woods with perjury:
But the cuckoo-knave sings hold his stave,
(Ever the spring comes merrily)
And "O poor fool!" sings he—
For this is the way in the world to live,
To mock when a friend hath no more to give,
Whether in hall or tree!

[The villagers retire severally.]

[Enter WILLIAM, L.]

Will. So this publican hath ceased to be a sinner! To think now of old sophisticate Gurton being called Hezekiah Newborn. Gadso, he babbles of salvation like the tap his boy left running this morning to see the troop of cavaliers go by. Yet I marked the unregenerate Gurton swore round ere Newborn found his voice to upbraid sourly as becomes a saint. He hath been more civil since I heard him. O Newborn, how utterly shalt thou be damned!

[Enter HOST.]

Host. The Lord be with thee, young man. It did seem to me that thou wert discoursing aloud in prayer. Doth thy master desire any creature-comfort?

Will. Master Gurton! thy belly hath kept pace with thy righteousness.

Host. Ha! Who told thee my carnal name? I prithee abstain. It doth remind me of the bonds of the flesh.

Will. Simply, thou art known to me. I am William Nutbrown.

Host. Nay! What, mine own friend Will, that had his bastard fathered on me? Why, he was a youth!

Will. He was! A youth of promise. Behold the fulfilment in these legs, this manly bosom!

Host. O wonderful! and to think I knew thee not! But thou art horribly, and as it were most monstrously improved? Will Nutbrown! to be sure—and whence comest thou?

Will. From the land of beccaficos, mine old Newborn! but thou understandest not—thou hast merely observed the increase of local timber and the decay of pigeon-houses. Thy sole chronicle hath been the ripe birth of undistinguishable curly-headed village children, and the green burial of undistinguished village bald old men hath been thine only lesson. Thou hast simply acquired amazement at the actions of the man of experience. Doth a quart measure still hold a quart?

Host. Alas! more—I will tell thee of it. These be sore times for us. You must know there hath been a Parliament commission of inquiry into weights and measures, and last Michaelmas a year, no! let me see—well, marry! there came down—

Will. Well, well, thou shalt finish anon.

Host. It went nigh to kill me.

Will. Thou shalt tell me all hereafter.

Host. Damnation! but I am glad. The Lord forgive me! I had nearly sworn.

Will. Thou hadst—nearly.

Host. And art thou a vessel of grace, or a brand given to the burning? Of a verity—

Will. Come, no lies with me! I shall doubt thee if thou cantest one word except in thy calling. Yet I saw by thy first look thou wert glad to see me; so give me thy hand, and I will shake it ere some one calls for a draught of ale, and thou dost relapse into the sordid and muddy calculation that makes thy daily self, and so forget that the friend of thy youth hath revisited thee. Nay, fear not, I will not betray thee to thy present customers. But first tell me, why thou art so changed: seeing that the cavaliers should be thy best friends?

Host. Friend Will! Twill tell thee—the cavaliers drink lustily, and of claret and sherris with spice, whereas, it is true, the elect chiefly do affect ale. But, O Will! your cavalier—not to speak of my keeping never a serving wench honest for a month, and I have daughters now grown—your best cavalier would ever pull out a long embroidered purse, with one gold piece in it, regarding which he would briskly swing it round, and jerking it together, replace in his doublet, saying between his hiccups, "Prithee, sweet Spigot!" or it may he, "Jolly Master Gurton! chalk it up; when the king hath his own again, I will repay thee;" or "I will go coin it from Noll's ruby nose," and would ride away singing, and in a fortnight the poor gentleman would surely be slain. And, as for your worst kind of cavalier, when I did gently remind him, he would swear and draw his rapier and make a fearful pass near my belly—that I was glad to see him depart with a skinful of mine own wine unpaid for. Moreover, Master Will, an he were handsome and a moon-raker, my wife, that is now at rest, would ever take his part, and cry shame on me for a cuckoldy villain to teaze a sweet, loyal gentleman so, that would pay when a could—moreover—

Will. Hold! Thy reasons are sufficient—Thou art, worthy Hezekiah! become a saint, to escape martyrdom. Methinks I see the gallant foin at thy belly.

[Draws his sword and makes a feint at the Host.]

Sa! sa!

Host. Have a care—[William makes feints.]

Will. I shall die! Gadzookers! thus, was it thus!—and thy wife—a cuckoldy villain—merely a figure of speech though, Master Gurton! Eh? Thou didst not suspect?

Host. Wilt thou be quiet; I see no jest.

Will. Nay, I'll be bound not. Sa! Sa!

Host. Laugh an thou likest; but put up thy toasting-iron.

Will. Well, thou hast reason for thanksgiving. But I think thy wife was right, if the poor gentleman's thrust was drunken, 'twas a compliment to thy wine. A scurvy rogue to ask for his money when he was poor, and thy wine did affect him.

Host. But to speak seriously, good Will, what bringeth thee here? Who is thy master! Can I assist thee in anything?

Will. Well, I pity thee, and will say no more. My master is young Arthur Walton. He hath returned. He gave up the fortune to his brother Basil.

Host. I thought he was settled abroad.

Will. No! no! He is here, and now he wanteth assistance from his brother; for we are in some present straits, and this Basil will have nought to say to him. What I shall want of thee is information of the family; and mayhap thy daughter will have to see Mistress Florence for us with a message.

[Enter TAPSTER and two or three Roundhead Soldiers, L.]

Tap. Master, master! here be soldiers quartered on us.

Will. The Philistines be upon thee!

Host. O Lord!——be praised. See directly and water the double ale—Tell my daughter to lock up the Trinidado tobaccos—Haste!

[Enter IRETON, HARRISON, and Soldiers, L.U.E.]

Ire. [Reading Papers.] Give us to drink, good measure; for the flesh is thirsty. That we have shall be paid. Who is that fellow [points to William] with his sword drawn?

Har. Ha! a malignant.—Smite him!

Sold. Lo! he shall die.

Host. Hold! hold! 'tis an innocent youth. He did but draw his weapon to defy the evil one. He is strong in prayer. [To William aside.] Speak quickly, an thou lovest thyself—something from Tobit, or the Psalmody.

Har. Thou hearest—Sin-Despise! touch not the youth. Lo, I myself have wrestled with the powers of darkness. [To William.] In what shape cometh he?

Will. With horns, an't please you, [Aside.] very like Master Newborn there.

Har. [To himself.] With me 'tis different. In the curtain'd night,
A Form comes shrieking on me,
With such an edg'd and preternatural cry
'T would stir the blood of clustering bats from sleep,
Tear their hook'd wings from out the mildew'd eaves,
And drive them circling forth—
I tell ye that I fight with him until
The sweat like blood puts out my burning eyes.
Call you this dreaming?

Will. [Aside to the Host.] Dost think the gentleman eats suppers?

Ire. A plague upon his damn'd repentant fancies!

Har. [Still to himself.] 'Twas on the heath,
As he did gripe and hold it from his breast,
He cut my blade with fifty pallid fingers,
On his knees, crying out
He had at home an old and doating father;
And yet I slew him!
There was a ribbon round his neck
That caught in the hilt of my sword.
A stripling, and so long a dying? Why
'Tis most unnatural!

Host. [Aside to William.] I would not have his conscience to be vintner to the Parliament.

Will. [To Host.] Nor I, for my master to be a fat-witted Duke, and I his chief serving-man.

Ire. Here we need counsel, and he raves of dreams
And devils. Yet, 'tis true, he fights as if
He were possess'd by them.
Come, Harrison!
Will you not hear how fortune dawns upon us?—

Har. Ay! indeed—
Excuse me, Ireton, I was something absent;
I think my health of late is shatter'd much.
Sometimes I talk aloud. Did I not speak
But now of Joab in the Bible,
And how he did slay Abner?—
Thou know'st I read the Scripture very oft.

A Trooper. Ay! he goes to bed with it under his pillow, lest the evil one should prevail. Desborough told him of it.

Har. Heard you of Falkland's death?

Ire. At Newbury?—
I did. On either side, in this sad war
The good and noble seem the ripest fruit,
And so fall first.

Har. Thus let them perish, all That strive against the Lord. Is Cromwell nigh?—

Ire. He will be here anon.

Har. [To himself.] The mighty men
Of Israel slew all. It was a sin
To spare the child in the womb.
I am a fool
To shiver thus to think that night must come.
The lion trembles at the sun's eclipse,
But, not for murder of the innocent lamb.
Who walks across my grave?—

Ire. Come, let us go:
I cannot pray or wrestle in the spirit;
But let us talk of earthly fights and toils.
I love fat quarters in a Bishopric
As well as any preacher of us all.

Har. Come, men, to quarters—
In four hours' time we march
To join Lord Essex—see your girths are slack'd,
Your pistols prim'd, your beasts fed, and your souls
Watching for grace, the word is "Kill and slay"—
'Twere best all eat, for I will fast and pray.

[Exeunt HARRISON and IRETON, R.S.E.]

A Soldier. [To William.] I say, wilt thou discourse?

2nd Sold. Give him a text.

3rd Sold. He lacketh speech—He is a dumb Amalekite.

1st Sold. I will even awaken him with a prick of my sword.

Host. Nay! he is strong in the word. [To William.] Preach something, if thou beest wise.

Will. What the devil!—

3rd Sold. Ay! uplift thy voice against Beelzebub.

Host. Thou couldst talk fast enough just now.

Will. Gurton! for this I will undo thee. Newborn! thou didst just now water thine ale. Hezekiah! thou dissemblest, which is more than thy wife used to do; for she feared thee not.

Host. I pity thee, and will say no more.

1st Sold. Here is a stool, let him mount thereon.

Will. These be ignorant knaves. I will practice on them. It may come to good. [Mounts the stool.] The Lord leadeth his people through the wilderness to salvation, crinkeldom cum crankeldom. [Mutters to himself.]

Soldiers. Hum!

Will. Of all thirsts, there be none like that after righteousness.—[Mutters to himself.]

Soldiers. Hum!

Will. [Aside.] For strong ale, which I think hath to do with the conversion of this Gurton. [Mutters to himself.]

1st Sold. Lift thy voice higher, that we stumble not in the dark.

Will. [Aside.] I would I could remember a text—anything will do—[Aloud.] The General Cromwell hath, they say, a red nose, and doth never spit white, which I look upon as a great sign, as was the burning bush to Moses!

2nd Sold. Ha! Blasphemest thou?

3rd Sold. He scoffeth!

4th Sold. Down with him.

Host. O fool! There will be blood spilt!

[They drag WILLIAM down (the HOST vainly endeavouring to interfere) and buffet him; as Sin-Despise draws his sword, the trumpets sound outside to saddle.]

[Enter HARRISON, R.S.E.]

Har. Why dally ye? Away! Smite hip and thigh.
To horse, to horse! what ho! Zerubbabel!
Mount, mount, I say, for bloody Goring's near—
To saddle, ho!

[They immediately fall into line, and leave quickly, L. The trumpets are still heard sounding. Exeunt all but HOST and WILLIAM, who arranges his collar and adjusts himself.]

Host. [Breathless.] What thinkest thou of this?

Will. Think! what of? Thy late wife's virtue? I would she were here.

Host. These be now your civil wars: didst mark? he said all should have been paid. Now, with them that were here, there were some fourscore and ten quarts that might have been drunk, had they staid an hour or so; and now to ride off thirsty to be killed.

Will. Well, it might have been worse, for they might have drunk it, and departed in that military haste which precludes payment.

Host. Ay! ay! thou wilt have thy jest.

[Exit into house.]

[Enter ARTHUR WALTON, L.]

Arth. Where hast thou been so long?

[To WILLIAM.]

Will. Truly at the burial of one Generosity!

Arth. And what manner of person was he?

Will. A fool in this world, but an angel of light in the next; if the word of God be true, which I remember to have heard in my childhood in the church there.

Arth. And how was he buried?

Will. About the setting of the sun, when he had no more to give. I saw none in the garb of mourning, though many wore long faces, because their gain was stopped.

Arth. And what wrote they on his tomb?

Will. Other names than his own. Extravagance, folly, imprudence, were the best terms there. One whom he had released from gaol, carved madness with a flint stone. There was but one would have painted his true name, but his tears defaced it—a humble dependent, who had been faithful to him, but whom he regarded not, being accustomed to his services.

Arth. Out! rogue! I have humoured thee too long, leave thy rascal allegory. Hast seen my brother?

Will. Ay, and thy cousin. She is a rare girl, and remembereth thee well. Thy brother is not attached to thee. He will give thee five hundred pounds if thou wilt swear to quit England for ever. He abuseth thee finely, saith thou art a debauched vagabond, which is an insult to me thy serving companion, whom he threatened with the stocks. Wilt thou not slay him?

Arth. O monstrous! Can it be? Fool that I have been. My father, thou wert right, indeed!

Will. Thy cousin would see thee. She is miserable about something, and will be here presently.

Arth. I will wither him with my reproaches.

Will. You have bad stuff to deal with. He will not become good suddenly, as in some stage-plays. You shall not frown him into a virtuous act. Nevertheless, abuse him, an 'twill do thee good. Look you, dear master, I will describe him. He hath a neat and cheerful aspect, and talketh very smoothly; nay, for a time he shall agree with everybody, that you shall think him the most good-natured fellow alive; he shall be as benevolent as a lawyer nursing his leg, whilst he listens to the tale of him whom his client oppresseth, and you shall win him just as easily. Let the question of gain put him in action, and the devil inside shall jump out, like an ape stirred up to malice. He affects, too, a vulgar frankness, which is often the mask of selfishness, as a man who helps himself first at table with a "ha! ha!" in a facetious manner, a jocose greediness, which is most actual, real earnest within.

Arth. Alas! If this be true, what chance have I? for such a one as thou describest would call charity herself a cheat, and deem the emotion of an angel morbid generosity.

Will. Bless you, he hath reasons! he would refuse tenpence to a starving wretch, because he owed ten pounds to his shoemaker, though he had ten thousand in his coffers at home. Yet would he still owe the ten pounds.

Arth. Nay, cease! I love not to hear it.

Will. And yet so meanly would he adopt appearances in the world's eye, that should he have to cross a muddy street where a beggar kept a passage clear with his besom, lest the gallants should soil their bravery, he would time his crossing, till one driven, or on horseback, should be near, that he might pass hurriedly on without giving him a groat, as in fear of being o'erridden. Like Judas—

Arth. Cease! cease! I bid thee cease!

Will. Thy cousin is very beautiful and gentle.

Arth. I will but see her, then my sword must carve my fortunes. Did she speak kindly of me? Alas! I need some welcoming. Go seek her. It is time.

[Exit WILLIAM, R.]

O sweet hour!
In yonder heaven deep the stars are lit
For evening service of seraphic quires—
Eternal pomp of serried, blazing worlds,
The heraldry of God, ere yet Time was.
The moon hangs low, her golden orb impearl'd
In a sweet iris of delicious light,
That leaves the eye in doubt, as swelling die
Round trills of music on the raptur'd ear,
Where it doth fade in blue, or softly quicken.
How, through each glade, her soft and hallowing ray
Stole like a maiden tiptoe, o'er the ground,
Till every tiny blade of glittering grass
Was doubled by its shadow.
Can it be,
That evil hearts throb near a scene like this?
And yet how soon comes the Medusa, Thought,
To chill the heart's blood of sweet fantasy!
For, O bright orb!
That glid'st along the fringe of those tall trees,
Where a child's thought might grasp thee,
Art thou not
This night in thousand places hideous? To think
Where thy pale beams may revel—on the brow
Of ghastly wanderers, with the frozen breast
And grating laugh, in murder's rolling eye,
On death, corruption, on the hoary tomb,
Or the fresh earth-mould of a new-made grave,
On gaping wounds, on strife,—the pantomime
Of lying lips, and pale, deceitful faces—
Ay! searching every scene of rank pollution,
In each foul corner busy as at play,
With new horror gilding vice, disease, decay,
Boast not, pale moon! to me thy harlot ray!

[Enter WILLIAM, R.]

Will. Sir, they come! Your collar is unfasten'd and your hair disorder'd. Let me—[Attempts to adjust AUTHUR'S dress.]

Arth. Heed it not! I thought you knew me better.

Will. Just a moment.—

Arth. No! yet will I meet her softly.
She is the only creature of her sex,
For whom I feel some kindness; 'tis because
I knew her ere I knew the world beside,
And all the lie of passion, that is nurs'd
For long in early blighted hearts alone,
Whom rank possession of the thing they pin'd for,
Had cured in one short month.—Well, I'll be kind,
Nay more, affectionate—

[Enter FLORENCE and BARBARA, R. He salutes her distantly.]

Fair mistress, thus
I claim a young acquaintance, that hath grown
Old in long absence.

Flor. [Rushing to him] Arthur! dearest. Arthur!
How strange! Dear cousin! Sir! I wish'd to see you,
Needing protection—nay! I was to blame,
Too hasty, you must think me bold indeed!

Arth. [Aside] Is all her nature, art?—How beautiful! [Aloud.] Dear Florence. [Attempts to take her hand warmly, she bows.] I have scarcely words to speak. Cousin! I'll be your champion. [Aloud.]

Flor. There is nought
In which you can assist me? I have come
Here, cousin, to entreat you, take this money.
Indeed, you can repay me quite soon, when
Your brother is more just. It is for him
That I would give it—

Arth. For him? yes! you are Betroth'd?

Flor. My father wills so—

Arth. I need not This money—

Flor. Cousin, take it. You are proud. Will you refuse me?

Arth. 'Tis my character To doubt your sex, and yet from you I'd take it, But that I need it not in truth.

Flor. Why doubt us? Ah! cousin, I have heard you have been wild, And so think women false, as you deceive them.

Arth. That you have heard is false!

Flor. I thought so. Now
I could indeed imagine it were true.
Because, perchance, you've lightly won some hearts,
Thus you must be severe and scoff at all,
As if you had good reason!—It is proof
Of an ungenerous mind or scatter'd heart.

Arth. Fair cousin, at your feet I would recant Mine error.

Flor. 'Tis polite, sir, thus to yield All your experience.

Arth. Nay, then! Do you not Believe a man may once love faithfully?

Flor. 'Twere base to doubt it—yet I think not you: You know you could not tell if it were true, Your love might be a jest. [She goes up the stage.]

Arth. [following FLORENCE.] By heaven! No.

[WILLIAM and BARBARA come forward.]

Will. Young woman! I doubt not your attachment, nor wonder at your love; but it cannot be returned. Principle forbids; and this heart is blighted.

Barb. Plighted, or not, I want none of it. What nonsense the man talks!

Will. This beard—what think you of it?

Barb. That it is red.

Will. Yet 'tis not for you.

Barb. I would humbly desire so.

Will. Do you know, lively rustic, that the beard of Mars, the god of war, is auburnly inclined? It is much affected by the ladies of the south.

Barb. I would they had it then, for it is an abhorr'd thing here.

Will. What a rank prude is woman, thus to disguise her inclination. They call thee Barbara—Bab! restrain not thy fancy. Come, hang round my neck and love me. What! wouldst thou be an exception to thy sex?

Barb. [Strikes him.] Take that, thou coxcomb!

[Runs up the stage, WILLIAM follows, ARTHUR and FLORENCE advancing.]

Arth. Break not my dream. It is not late. The night
Will lose her beauty as thy footsteps fade
In distance from me. Florence, go not yet.
I had a thousand loyal thoughts, I swear,
To utter, and as many questions, Florence,
To ask thee of thyself. Thou lovest not,
Thou canst not love my brother; for thou saidst
As much, nay more, this moment.

Flor. Did I so? Perchance I might have done; but then I love My father—

Arth. Tell me so again!

Flor. Indeed, I love My father!

Arth. Cruel! no, I'd have thee say If thou dost love my brother.

Flor. He's my cousin.

Arth. Or any one!

Barb. Dear lady, it is time.

Flor. Farewell, sir! yet I bid you take this purse 'Tis justice—nay, my will!

Arth. Oh, farewell, Florence
May angels light thy feet, and all the stars
From heaven race with envious beams to shed
Celestial brightness on the path thou blessest.

[Exit FLORENCE, R. ARTHUR gazes after FLORENCE. WILLIAM and BARBARA, coming down, L.]

Will. Sweet Bab, I love thee.

Barb. That is a man's saying.

Will. Thou wouldst not have it said by anything but a man. Thou wilt not forget?

Barb. There, yes! no! anything!

[Tries to get away. WILLIAM gives BARBARA a kiss.]

Barb. Oh, dear, I must go. [Exit R.]

Arth. She's gone!

Will. They are, sir!

Arth. What they—

Will. Mistress Florence and Barbara, sir!

Arth. Why stand here prating, then?
Go follow; see no harm comes, quick, the road
Is dangerous. I'll wait here. Leave them not
Before they are safe in. [Exit WILLIAM, R.]
For thy sake, Florence,
I will believe perfection's in thy sex.
How much I might have said. Yes! I have been
Imagination's wildest fool to deck
With qualities that did beseem them not
All the worst half of women. Thus we stoop
To pick up hectic apples from the ground,
Pierc'd by the canker or the unseen worm,
And tasting deem none other grow but they,
Whilst on the topmost branches of life's tree
Hangs fruitage worthy of the virgin choir
Of bright Hesperides. Soft! Who comes here?
Surely my rascal is not yet return'd—
The times are full of plotting. I will hide—

[Stands aside. Voices heard.]

[Enter four POACHERS, one carrying a fawn.]

1st Poach. I tell thee that I heard 'em bay.

2nd Poach. And I too! Curse me, but I thought his fangs did meet in the calf of my leg.