ACT II.
SCENE I.
[2nd Grooves.]
A large Barn with folding doors. In it a number of Cavaliers drinking at various rude tables. Some women are interspersed among them. Many are playing at dice, &c. Their arms are piled in a corner.
1st Cav. [Sings]
Noll's red nose,
In a bumper here goes
To Beelzebub his own master;
With the pikes at his flank
Of our foremost rank,
And the devil to find him plaster,
Fairfax and Harrison,
On them our malison.
But drink and sing
A health to the KING—
Gentlemen! steady,
Fill, now be ready.
All. He shall have his own again!
[Shouting and huzzaing.]
A Cav. A toast! gentlemen. "Noll's nose a-fire, and the devil's youngest daughter to baste it with aqua-vitae!"
All. Ha! ha!
A Cav. Would that Goring's moonrakers might come across the snuffling organ and cut it off. We would have it by way of pavillon. Thou, Frank Howard! shouldst carry it as senior cornet. Thou wouldst be like curly-headed David with the spoils of the Philistine drum-major Goliah. Led on by its light we'd march direct to Whitehall, our trumpets sending dismay to the virtue of the starched coifs of the round rosy rogues of London.
A Cav. [Arranging his love-lock.] Plague on't, I don't think their virtue would tremble at the chance.
Anoth. Cav. Lord! what rumpling of sober dimities! Poor little plump partridges, they cannot help their forced puritanism.—But all women are for king and cavalier in their hearts.
[Two Cavaliers advance with angry gestures to the front of the stage.]
1st Cav. I tell thee, Wilmington! 'twas I she did regard.
2nd Cav. And I tell thee that thou thinkest wrong. I know she loves me.
1st Cav. Did she tell thee so?
2nd Cav. This kerchief was hers.
1st Cav. Bah! Thou didst steal it from thy mother, boy! Go home and return it to her.
2nd Cav. Ha!
3rd Cav. Who is this piece of goods—she at the White Dragon?
1st Cav. Nay, a mercer's daughter. Wouldst like the address? She entertaineth well.
2nd Cav. How! 'Tis false!
1st Cav. I met her yestereen, and she said thou shouldst have been a canting Psalmsinger. Thou art so innocent a youth.
2nd Cav. Hell's fire! I'll not bear this. I tell thee she waved her hand to me from her lattice, and dropped this kerchief.
1st Cav. And to me she gave her garter when I left her.
2nd Cav. To hang thyself? Nay, thou liest!
1st Cav. [Strikes him down.] Take that, thou fool!
[He rises, they draw. Closing in of the Cavaliers near, confusion.]
3rd Cav. Hold, gentlemen! 'Tis a mere wanton! I believe these wenches are dowered by old Noll to set our young hot-bloods by the ears. Hold! 'Tis not worth!
[They continue tonight. The 2nd Cavalier is wounded.]
A Cavalier, richly dressed, who has entered, L., in the meanwhile, and made inquiring gestures.
Cav. For whose sake?
O shame! shame!
The King—
The Queen needs all your blood, and ye must shed it
In shameless broils like these!
Thus the dear blood that should, if spilt it be,
Dye our white spotless cause with its rich crimson,
Must now for every muslin thing that spites
Her prentice-lover, making fools of you.
And O ye others, loyal gentlemen!
I weep indeed for England and our King,
To see ye all, in this the perilous gasp
Of hardy enterprize, yourselves forget,
Like Circe's brutish swine. I tell ye now,
While ye are lost in drunken quarrelling,
Cromwell is near.
3rd or 4th Cav. The King shall have his own. Lillibullero!
Cav. I say, thee General Cromwell Is on the road with some four hundred men, And will surprise us. [Confused movement to arm.]
1st Cav. [Who has continued to drink.] Ha! What does it concern thee with thy preaching? Dost thou want ought here? [Touching his sword-hilt.] I care not for thee or Noll. Would he were here, and a matter of four thousand to back him. [Draws.] Sa! sa! canst fight as well as talk? Wilt take up the bilbo? Come, adopt the weapon of him I have sliced. Come, be nimble, sir, jig. I would fain go visit the haulage of my fancy.
[A confused noise without.]
Cav. Too late! O gentlemen! here, Willsden, is thy sword. Varley, arouse thee! The enemy! Away, women! Come, gentlemen—this table—a barricade, so— [1st Cavalier stands in his way.] Off, fool! [Hurls him aside.]
A tremendous explosion; the wide doors behind are burst in by a petard; the barn falls, and discovers a view of York. Enter CROMWELL with IRONSIDES through the break.
Crom. Yield, sons of Belial!
Cav. O Charles, my king! 'Tis time to die, ere see thy cause thus lost!
[Throws himself on the pikemen.]
Here, cavaliers! a blow, one blow, 'tis Noll
The butcher, brewer Noll, that in your songs
Ye send to hell so often. Send him now,
If ye be men, not cowards. What! at loss!
[1st Cavalier staggers against him as he parries two or three pikemen, and he receives a mortal stroke, and falls. During this the other cavaliers are struck down or disarmed.]
Alas! I might have reach'd him, but betray'd
By our own rotten conduct, die—Oh, had I words
Now could I prophesy—destruction—Charles!
My king! [Dies.]
Crom. There is no king save one, and He
Is with us! [Points to 1st Cavalier.]
Yon poor wretch—what saith he?
Nay!
Strike not his mouth.
1st Cav. I defy thee, Satan! I'll back my rapier, an' thou wilt fight, Brewer! Curse on thy muddy veins, thou hast no honourable desperation in thee. Come, if thou beest a man, give up thy odds. What, ho! Excalibur!
[Makes a rush to get at CROMWELL]
Crom. It seemeth that
The ungodly fret. Go, place him in the stocks.
I charge ye harm him not—
But give him ale,
Wine, and a scurvy song-book—Such as he
Do make us triumph. Fie, fie, Cornet Dean!
Well, stop his mouth, an't please ye; come, away!
[Trumpets sound.]
This is a gift of God, see burial
Unto the dead—now on to Marston Moor.
[Exeunt U.E.R.]
[Enter WILLIAM, U.E.L.]
Will. So my master hath at last turned roundhead with a vengeance, and therefore I, to whom the rogue is necessary, am here, on the brink of nowhere. To think that so much merit may be quenched by the mechanical art of a base gunner, who hath no fear in his actions; for I take it that a discreet reverence for the body we live in, which the vulgar term fear, shows the best proof of the value of the individual. Egad! life here is as cheap as the grass on an empty common, where there is no democracy of goose to hiss at the kingly shadow of a single ass in God's sunshine. My master hath not done well; for he must have known that I could not leave him without a moral guide and companion—to die, too, with the sin of my unpaid wages on his conscience. Well, pray heaven, there come soon a partition of the crown jewels amongst us, after which I will withdraw this right arm from a cause I cannot approve; but to cherish principles one should not lack means; therefore, [taking the feather from his cap and throwing it down] lie thou there, carnal device! and I will go look for a barber and be despoiled, like a topsy-turvy Samson, not to lose strength, but to gain it. I thank heaven that our camp did yesterday fall in dry places, for there were many of these sour-visaged soldiers called me Jonah, and I did well to escape ducking in a horse-pond. Soft, here be some of them coming. Yestere'en I committed sacrilege in a knapsack, and stole a small Bible from amid great plunder for my salvation. Now will I feign to read it, and I doubt not the sin will be pardoned, for self-preservation is the second law of nature, as I have generally observed fornication to be the first!
Enter a party of Soldiers, R.
[Looking up.] These be some of Oliver's Ironsides; every one of whom is, as David, a man of war and a prophet; truly they are more earnest and sober than the others.
1st Troop. To-morrow we shall sup in York.
Will. [Aside.] How the man of war identifies himself with the remnant of those that shall sup.
2nd Troop. Not so—for this morning, when a surrender was demanded, they would have hanged our messenger. That raging Beelzebub, Rupert, in expected hourly to the relief. [Distant firing.] There! there! he is come.
1st Troop. What say the generals?
2nd Troop. Our own Cromwell is very prompt; but the rest chafe much, and the Scots are sore backsliders.
3rd Troop. I would we might be led on and the trumpets sounded, that the walls of yon Jericho might fall about their ears, and deliver them into our hands alive.
Will. Worthy martialist! may I speak?
1st Troop. Ay so?
Will. Is the King there in person?
2nd Troop. Surely not; he is in that city of abomination, Oxford.
[Here CROMWELL enters, U.E.R., with his face covered.]
Will. Is it not true that ye did ask them that guard the city to yield it in the King's name?
2nd Troop. I heard the message: it was so worded.
Will. 'Tis an excellent contradiction, to fight for and against. If ye should meet the King now in battle, would you fire on him with your pistols, or cleave him with your swords?
1st Troop. Nay!
Crom. [Discovering himself.] But I say, yea!
Will. [Without seeing CROMWELL.] What, in his own name, kill him for himself, for his own sake, as it were? I would fain argue that with your general—[sees CROMWELL.]—another time. Farewell, worthy sirs!
Crom. Stay, thou base knave! I'll have thee whipped without
The army of the saints. Hearken ye all!
Charles Stuart I would gladly smite to death:
Not as a king, but as a man that fights
Against the honour, conscience of the king,
And the true rights of all his loving subjects.
Is any here the muscles of whose arm
Grow slack to think he may meet such an one
In arms to-morrow? Let him home to-day,
God and his country have no need of him.
Soldiers. A Cromwell! Cromwell! Lead on, we'll slay the king.
Crom. I did but say If ye should meet him, ye would not turn back.
Soldiers. No! No!
Crom. Nor slur the onset?
Soldiers. No!
Crom. Nor spare A courtier for his likeness to the King?
Soldiers. No! No!
Crom. Why then ye are mine own, [observing the soldiers.]
My brave and trusty Ironsides! See here
Are some right honest faces I have known
From childhood, and they'll follow me to death,
If needed.—Let the paltry Scot go hence,
And even Fairfax rein his charger back—
We'll on unto the breach. The Lord Himself
Will ride in thunder with our mail-clad host:
The proudest head that ever wore a crown
Shall not withstand us.—Strike! and spare not! Ho!
Down with the curs'd of God!
Soldiers. A Cromwell! Cromwell! Let us come on!
Crom. The sun that stood in Heaven, Until his beams grew red with two days' blood Of slaughtered Canaan, shall see them flee like chaff before us—
Soldiers. Joshua! cry aloud, A Joshua!—
Crom. These gay Philistine lords That fight for Dagon, will ye fly them, or Hurl them and Dagon down?—
Soldiers. A Samson! Samson!
[Distant cannon heard. Cheering from the Soldiers.]
Will. [Aside.] Here's gory enthusiasm! Now whilst every man is ready to preach individually on his own account, and the whole collectively are about to sing a psalm, I will endeavour to steal away unperceived, lest any of them, imagining himself somewhere between Deuteronomy and Kings, should take it upon himself to proclaim that I come from Gibeon, and so—
Crom. [To William.] Hither! sirrah! It is well I know the master that thou servest, or else thy back had paid the license of thy speech. Tell him I would speak with him two hours hence in his own quarters. [Exit William, U.E.L.] Good friend, [to a soldier] I am thirsty in the flesh. Get me, I prithee, a cup of thine ale. [Soldier goes out.] [To another soldier.] Give me thy pipe, Ruxton! is it right Trinidado?—[To them all.] Think ye now, the generals fare better than ye do—I mean now, Desborough or Rossiter, or our brave Ireton?
A Soldier. Ay! do they. But just now we saw a store of good things carried into Desborough's tent. Lo! there goes Jepherson and Fight-the-good-Fight Egerton this instant to feast on the fat things of the earth. [Here the soldier gives him a cup of ale.]
Crom. [Pausing ere he drinks.] What is thy name, friend?
A Soldier. [Near.] Born-again Rumford.
Crom. A babe, I do protest, a babe of grace. See you not, he cannot speak himself. [Drinks, and throws the remainder over Born-again Rumford's beard. Returns the cup and prepares his pipe.] Now, Born-again! I think thou art baptized again! [The soldiers laugh.] So there is feasting and gluttony amongst our captains. Hearken ye, I shall call a conference straightway. When the generals be come, which they will do with sore grumbling, then do ye fall to and spare not! I will stand between you and the fierce wrath of them that be spoiled. Three rolls on the kettledrum shall be the signal. See that ye leave nothing. [Going, L.]
[As he goes he strikes his pipe on the back of the corslet of one of the soldiers; so that the ashes fall on his neck.]
Sol. Now may the devil!
Crom. Ho! swearest thou?—fy! fy! for shame, Orderly officer! set Hezekiah Sin-Despise down in thy book five shillings for an oath. Truly Sin-Despise is no fitting name for thee, but rather 'Overcome-by-Sin.' Come, as I did tempt thy railing, I will pay thy fine. [Gives him money.] Tush! grin not so, man. I thought my Ironsides were proof against fire as well as steel. [Exit, L.]
Shouts of the Soldiers. Live, Cromwell! live, our worthy general!
[WILLIAM re-enters and joins the Soldiers. Exeunt, B.]
Enter ARTHUR reading a letter, U.E.L.
"——and so, cousin, I am very miserable, and if you have this influence with the General Cromwell, whose fair daughter I do so well remember, get me a home with her; for, alas! I can stay no longer here. And yet my father? But to wed with one that I despise, it is impossible, and all things are prepared, I look to you alone for rescue. Farewell. Florence."
I will! I will "Postscript. I hear you are engaged in these dreadful wars. Pray heaven! you have chosen aright; for I know not. But peril not your life more than becomes true valour; for I have heard you are dear to many. Adieu!" I dear to many?—let's see, there is my faithful serving-man—poor fellow, he likes not this life, and doth assume an amusing kind of fear, but I do believe thinking more of me than himself. Well then; I had a dog; but he was lost the night of our passage, when but for his inveterate barking, for which I beat him, I had surely been drowned in the cabin, where I slept, when the vessel was stranded—he loved me; but for more—I know them not.
O dearest Florence! were I lov'd indeed by thee,
There were indeed a bright star in the sky,
To guide my shatter'd bark of destiny! [Retires, U.R.]
Enter CROMWELL, IRETON, DESBOROUGH, and others, U.E.L., ARTHUR joins them.
Crom. Thus, gentlemen, the reports being ended, I would but detain you a short while in prayer.
Des. Nay! as I said before, we are fatigued, and the body needs refreshment.
Ire. [Apart to Cromwell.] How the pampered boar frets!
Crom. [To Desborough.] Will you to my tent?—I can give you a soldier's fare, with a soldier's welcome, a crust and cup of ale, and we can discourse what remains.
An Officer. Indeed we are engaged; but if the General Cromwell would honour us—
Crom. I thank you, I have supped ere you have dined.
[Drum rolls. A loud shout of merriment and clatter is heard.]
Des. What is that—in my tent too!
[Looking off, R. WILLIAM comes forward, R.]
By Heaven! rank mutiny. I'll have them shot.
Will. Nay! worthy sir, knock out the priming of your wrath from the matchlock of your vengeance, and abide till to-morrow, when you shall see many a stout fellow and gormandizer to boot levelled. [To Cromwell.] Great Sir! they complain that the wine is thin.
Crom. Go purchase some strong waters. [Gives him money.] I must not have my fellows' stomachs unsettled. Here, thou graceless knave.
Will. An't please you, we had no time for grace; but we return thanks to you, under Heaven.
Des. This then is your work, General Cromwell! Call you this discipline?
Crom. [To the Soldiers as they enter, R.] Go hence, you rascals.
[Soldiers entering with whooping and shouts.]
Sound bugles! fall in! quick march!
[The Soldiers march round and fall in a line in perfect order, WILLIAM bringing up the rear, shouldering a bone.]
Ire. [To Arthur Walton.] See you now the bent of this? How he doth make them his own? I tell you that the day will come, this host shall follow him alone, ay! and perchance England—
Crom. [To Desborough, who has remained apart, indignant.] Come, Desborough! if thou hast digested thine indignation—[Taking Desborough's arm, kindly.]
Ire. As he will never his dinner.
Crom. Thou wilt unto my tent, where is store of wholesome food.
Enter HARRISON, L., hurriedly.
Har. I fear they will not sally forth; our host Meanwhile will melt away. Despondency Sits heavy on my soul.
[Firing is heard from the town.]
Ire. If they abide In York, we'd best draw off. [Exit ARTHUR, L.]
Crom. But Rupert! Rupert!
Wilt he not fight—The fiery-headed fool
Will rush out on us from yon fenced town,
And then—Whom have we here?
[An Orderly hastens in.]
Ord. The earl doth bid you Prepare for instant action; Rupert and Newcastle Are forth outside the gates.
Crom. Said I not so?— Their hearts are hardened by the Lord of hosts. [Musketry in the distance.] [To an officer entering.] Did you not hear me when I said "Bring up the fascines?" How shall we cross the ditch? Do you not heed? Quick, man!
Offi. Even as Balaam said to Balak, Lo! I will but speak what the Lord hath put in my mouth. [Turning to the Soldiers.] Wherefore, I say, O brethren, be ye as they the Lord set apart to Gideon—
Crom. [Striking him with his pistol butt.] Take that, thou babbling fool! this is no fitting time to preach. Ho! Jepherson. Bring up the facines.
Enter ARTHUR, L., to CROMWELL.
Arth. Fairfax is beaten, and our right wing scattered.
Crom. Hist! dismay not these. Doth Rupert follow them?
Arth. He doth fight fiercely.
Crow. Then will I meet him. Victor to victor, we will close together. Ho! forward!
[Another Officer enters.]
Offi. The musketry of Belial hath mowed our ranks, and the sons of Zeruiah—
Crom. Tush, tell me not of Zeruiah, or, by the Eternal, I will smite thee! Speak in English.
Offi. The Scotch are in disorder. Lucas, and Porter, and the malignant Goring are playing havoc with them. Newcastle, with his white coats, is winning on us at the pike's point.
Crom. That's what is done. What is to do? What says the General?
Offi. That you charge Rupert.
Crom. Why did you not speak sooner?
I am dead
To hear you drawl thus. Righteous Lambert, on!
Bring up the regiments.
Tell brave Frizell,
He shall see sport anon—
[A Soldier gives him his morion.]
I will not wear it!
I cannot see around—
[A heavy discharge of cannon heard without.]
Ho! Desborough,
Here is a dinner for thee. See thou carve it
Right well. On! on! a Cromwell for a Rupert!
Soldiers. The Lord and Cromwell!
Crom. Nay, not thus: shout rather "God and his people! England! Liberty!"
[Exeunt L.]
[Different parties of wounded Soldiers enter U.E.L; some being assisted, and others staggering; the scene becomes dark and obscured with clouds of smoke. Several Soldiers fall down.]
[Enter WILLIAM, R., meeting a wounded Trooper, L.]
Troop. How goes the day? Why art thou not with the saints, that are now fighting?
Will. I was about to fight; but they waited not for me. It is all over now. The king hath no more chance than a butterfly three days at sea amongst a covey of Mother Carey's chickens. I would pursue, but lack spurs and a horse, or you should not find me here; [Aside.] or within ten miles of it.
Troop. Get me some water, friend!
Will. Ah! you would have watered me in a pond two days since; but here—this is better than water.
[The Soldier takes a flask from him.]
Troop. I think thou saidst that the malignants were smitten. Praised be the Lord! Yet I would I had not seen my father's white hairs amid yon accursed red coats. I parried a stroke from him that must have jarred the old man's arm.
[Falls back exhausted.]
Will. An' this be not a lesson! I have no father that is a malignant, and could therefore only undergo simple murder. However, [touching the hilt of his sword] rest thou there! in Mercy's hallowed name—nay more, as rashness is animal, so a due timidity is soul, which is mind, and I have a great mind to run away, and mind being soul, I think I have a greater soul than Alexander.
[A loud discharge of cannon, L.]
Now if it were not for that, this foolish brute, my body, might rush off in that direction, but it don't, for a great mind prevents it, therefore—
[Stage more dark. He runs off in an opposite direction to the shot, R. More wounded enter and fall down, U.E.L.]
Enter an Old Man in the King's uniform, of red coats, L.
Old Man. I thought the day was ours. The headlong Rupert
Swept all before him, like the wind that bends
The thin and unkind corn, his men were numb
With slaying, and their chargers straddling, blown
With undue speed, as they had hunted that
Which could not turn again—e'en thus was Rupert,
When round to meet his squadrons came a host
Like whirlwind to the wind.
There was a moment that the blood-surge roll'd
Hither and thither, while you saw in the air
Ten thousand bright blades, and as many eyes
Of flame flashed terribly. Then Rupert stay'd
His hot hand in amazement,
And all his blood-stain'd chivalry grew pale:
The hunters, chang'd to quarry, fled amain,
I saw the prince's jet-black, favourite barb
Thrown on her haunches; then away, away,
Her speed did bear him safe. Then there came one,
A grisly man, with head all bare and grey,
That shouted, "Smite and scatter, spare not, ho!
Ye chosen of the Lord!" and they did smite,
As on the anvil; till the plumed helms
Of all our best bent down. Alas! alas!
That I should see this day—-
[Looks about and finds his son.]
What's this, my son!
Wounded? my disobedient child?
I thought of him
But now in charging, as I met a foe
That beat my sword-arm down—had he been there
I had not suffer'd—nay, what colours these?
Against the king?—he is my son; I'll bear
Him off, and win him to his king and me.
[Takes him up, several cross the stage flying. Musketry from L. to R. A shot strikes the Old Man, who falls. Several officers and soldiers enter fighting with swords and firearms.]
CROMWELL enters pursuing, L. to R.
Crom. Strike home! spare none! The father with the son,
That fights for tyranny. [To a Trooper.] Give me thy sword!
Mine own is hack'd with slaying—
Where is Rupert?
The haughty Rupert now?—
Where is this king,
That tempts the God of battles?—Are they gone,
That cost these precious lives?
[Here the sun breaks out in splendour and lights up the battle-ground behind.]
"Let God arise,
And let his enemies be scattered!"
END OF ACT II.
ACT III.
SCENE, I.
[1st Grooves.]
An apartment in Cromwell's house.
Enter CROMWELL, ARTHUR, the LADY ELIZABETH, L.
Crom. To have a home, that is no fitting home,
Is worse than the sad orphan's part, who gathers
His lean crumbs from the world's wide eager table,
And pares the flint-stones borne in stranger breasts,
To eke him out against the cruel winds—
[Crosses to his daughter.]
Thou say'st she was thy playmate—
Come, thou hast
Mov'd the stern soldier to thy woman's will.
Go, sir! [To Arthur.] and fetch this Florence from her roof.
There should be no such scandal done in England,
As the loud insult of a marriage forc'd
Before God's altar.
Arth. If they do oppose?
Crom. Thy brother is a worker in my hands,
Leave him to me; the old man loves his wealth
Too well. I say, go quickly, and return
With speed direct—I'd have thee near me, [Aside.] for
Thy noble confidence that dares to speak
The first-fruits of thy mind,—
I have regard [Aloud.]
For thee, young man, see that you keep it warm
As now—but mind, no swords, as ye are brothers—
Not e'en reproach.—Sweet heart, when foolish mercy
[To his daughter.]
Doth beg an idle tale from thy dear lips,
Perchance thou'lt seek thy father—until then,
All good be with thee! [Crosses to R.]
Sir! I will direct [To Arthur.]
A present escort for you.
[Exit CROMWELL, R.]
Arth. Lady! deem My heart coin'd into words to thank you nothing For payment of this service.
Eliz. Sympathy
Is just as often born of happiness,
As bitter suffering of the world's contempt.
Within the magic circle of a home,
Happy and loved as mine is,
The heart is touched with pity's gentle wand
To do her lightest bidding—
But in this,
There is no kind emotion worth the name;
For I would see my school-fellow and friend
To talk old nothings, something still to us,
And look beneath the lashes of her eyes,
To learn her plaint against the selfish world,
And read her trust in Heaven—
Is she fair
As childhood promised ?—[Looking archly at Arthur.]
Do you know, I think
You love her more than cousinship demands?
Arth. Nay! she is worthy of all love.
Eliz. Well, well, sir! I shall know when I see you both together.
Exeunt ELIZABETH, R., ARTHUR, L.
SCENE II.
[1st Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]
A Hall in a Manor House.—Discovered SIR SIMON, in an easy chair, supported by servants, BASIL and FLORENCE attending.
Sir Sim. I am thy father. Would'st kill me, girl? O dear! I saw Master Stacker, the court physician that was, to-day. [Coughs.] Oh, I am very ill.
Flor. Dear father! what said he?
Sir Sim. That I have a disease of the heart. Now I don't agree with him. There he is mistaken. Why I might die instantly with a disease of the heart. He is a clever man, but quite mistaken there. You see, my heart never beats fast, but when I am agitated, and I was out of breath this morning with the stairs—O dear! [Places his hand to his heart.] Thou dost agitate me, girl—but there is no disease here—no! no! I am very ill—but I shall not die yet!
Flor. Dear father! pray be careful.
Sir Sim. Now, had he said 'twas asthma—'tis a long-lived complaint. I have known very old men with asthma. Our chirurgeon, Master Gilead Stubbs, said I was asthmatic, and we have been much together. Many a good flagon of claret have we drank, and should he not know my constitution?
Basil. Uncle!
Sir Sim. Yes, yes, I know. [To Florence.] Come, thou must marry him. Curse on this physician. I never felt so before. [Places his hand to his heart.]
Flor. Oh, father; do not urge this suit!
Sir Sim. Girl! I will leave thee nought if thou dost not—save my curse!
Flor. No, no!
Sir Sim. All my hopes——'Tis very odd. Stop, stop! I have a pain here, here! Wilt thou promise?
Basil. Murderess!
Flor. I will do all. O God!
Enter ARTHUR, L.
Sir Sim. Who is this? 'Tis their father! I promised him that Arthur should wed my daughter. He is come to claim her, and see, he beckons me—
[Falls back and dies in the chair, servants bear him off, R.]
Basil. Dead, dead! I am frustrated.
Flor. Oh, Arthur! look to my father.
Arth. [Returning and supporting her.] Thou hast no father, Florence! I have a home for thee, with one that's young and gentle like thyself. [She faints.]
Basil. Mark, thou art my brother! I swear [Aside.]
I will have vengeance! At the moment too
She yielded. Beggar, thus to thwart me—Oh,
If I dar'd, I could smite him, as he smiles
On that unconscious, pretty piece of goods.
[Retires, L., surly, looking at ARTHUR. Servants come in with BARBARA.]
Arth. Take her unto her chamber 'till we leave.
[Servants take FLORENCE off, exeunt, R., all but BASIL.]
Enter WYCKOFF stealthily to BASIL, L.
Wyck. As for your brother, in these troublesome times, as I said, it were less trouble to put him out of the way in a broil. Colour it with the affectation of party spirit, and, as you are on both sides, in a manner, it matters not on which you disagree. You might draw swords yourselves, and have me and one or two stout fellows near, who would rush in and stab him, as it were, to prevent mischief between you.
Basil. I tell you, it will not do. He is a favourite with Cromwell. How often am I to tell you that I would not break with Noll. There are secrets! You see one does not know yet which side will prevail.
Wyck. Well, I cannot help you. If, now, it were to circumvent a woman, to betray a saucy piece of virtue—then I would go great lengths in deception; remind me that I tell thee a story will make thee laugh. 'Twas ere my trip to America. I would have sold her to the plantations. 'Sblood, will not that do for him?—
Basil. I tell there is better.
Wyck. Doth he know that by your father's disposition of the property, his relinquishment of it in your favour is void! I say, the old fellow knew thee well, eh? [Laughs.]
Basil. Curse on thy ribald jests; keep them for the girls thou betrayest. No, no, he knows nothing.
Wyck. Let me tell thee of the girl. She loved a mean fellow that was her father's apprentice, and perspired in good behaving. A tremulous young man; with hissing red cheeks and a clump hand that looked through his fingers during evening prayers at the maid-servants, as they knelt; yet cried "Amen" with a reverence, and had the gift to find his own bedchamber afterward. It was a mercy to pave her from him, for they had surely procreated fools. Yet she liked not the sea, and one night she fell overboard in a calm, and the sharks had a white morsel. She walked in her sleep. I wish, though, she had left her ear-rings behind.
Basil. Hush! hush!
Wyck. Thus it is to be such a fellow as you. You pretend to be so tender-hearted. Well, I never wished to kill my brother. If I had one I could love him, unless he were a damned scrupulous sinner, that makes faces at doing what he is always wishing. Why, hark you, with your peccadilloes, you resemble a monkey over a hot dish of roasted chestnuts; you keep grinning round with your mouth watering, till they get cold, before you taste.
Basil. I tell thee that I hate him and fear him not. Would that his blood might freeze upon my door-step on a December night! If he were here now, I would stab him before thee.
Wyck. Ay, in the back.
Basil. But I have a plan that shall undo him most securely. Come in here, and I will tell thee over a stoup of right claret.
Wyck. Now you speak reason; for I am but a dry rogue, and am never fit for much early in the morning, without I sit up all night. [Exeunt, L.]
SCENE III.
[Last Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]
A handsomely fitted Chamber in London.—A practicable window in F.
Enter ARTHUR WALTON, FLORENCE, the LADY ELIZABETH CROMWELL.
Eliz. [To Arthur.] Urge not your suit through me, when she is here.
Give half Love's reasons that to me you gave,
Why she should not be cruel, and I think
You'll hardly find her so—[To Florence.]
Nay! be not scornful,
You know I can betray you—[Goes to the window.]
Flor. Oh, be silent!
Arth. Dear cousin, will you forth to walk? The day Is fine.
Eliz. [Running to the window.] I do protest it has been raining long.
Arth. To-morrow I must leave—
Flor. To-morrow, really? Shall you be absent long? Adieu, then, sir.
[Going.]
Arth. Distraction! I deserve not this unkindness. Florence, why spurn my love thus?—
Flor. Nay, I think But just escaped one brother's persecution, 'tis Too bad another should annoy me.
Arth. Pardon, Madam, my cousin; henceforth I'll not grieve you.
[Going.]
Flor. Stay!
Arth. [Rushing to her.] What is it?
Flor. Nothing, but I think you promis'd
To ride my horse; you know she is too gay;
Nay, 'tis no matter if you have forgotten.
It is no wonder, since you walked so long
With those two foreign ladies yesterday:
The youngest dresses somewhat out of taste
To suit our English fancy. Did you not
The other evening speak of English dress
As something prudish, not quite to your taste?
Are you going far to-morrow?—
Arth. They are not foreign, I do assure you; I have known them long, The daughters of my honour'd friend, John Milton.
Eliz. [Aside.] She knows it well as he does.
Flor. No? Indeed?
Arth. [Pointing to Elizabeth.] Ask her.
Flor. I am not curious, sir, to hear
With whom you walk; but, if you mention them,
Of course 'tis natural I speak of it—
Elizabeth!
Will you come here and answer him! he talks
Of one old Milton's daughters, when I'd ask
About the fashions.
Eliz. [With emotion, at the window.] See, there goes another
Doom'd to the block; the excellent Laud scarce cold
Within his grave—
It makes me heart-sick, girl!
To live, when just men die, that love their king,
And I, his daughter, his, that wills it so,
And does not stir to save them—nay, approves,
Condemns, and sanctions;
O 'tis dreadful! dreadful!
Arth. [To FLORENCE.] Is she thus often!
Flor. Ay, too often thus
Of late she suffers. [Runs to her.]
Dear Elizabeth!
There, Walton, go!
Arth. And may I hope?—
Flor. Is this a time?
Do you not see she is ill?—
You will return,
Ere long—go, call a servant!
[He looks at her, she waves her hand impatiently, he goes out. Exit ARTHUR, L.]
Eliz. [Points to the window.] Is it gone?— He was quite young. Think you my father sat In judgment on him?
Flor. Know you not he is Now with the army?
Eliz. True! true!
[Passes her hand over her brow.] It is o'er. Where is your cousin gone?
Flor. Who?
Eliz. Arthur Walton.
Flor. Oh! he has left.
Eliz. Your answer to him?
Flor. None.
Eliz. Out, flirt! I found you weeping, and you told me You lov'd him—
Flor. Did I? I'd forgotten it.
Eliz. Well, you will lose him thus.
Flor. Then, he's not worth The keeping, in my thought.
Eliz. You have done wrong. I know the business he is gone upon. You may not see him more—
Flor. I don't believe it, Although he said it.
Eliz. Girl! he hath to do A secret and most dangerous mission.
Flor. What! In truth!—I'll call him back to speak to you.
[Runs to the window.]
Ah! he has gallop'd off so fast without
Once turning. Ah! to danger—Oh, wretch! wretch!
Fool that I am. [Weeps.]
Eliz. [To FLORENCE.] Poor child! You love him, then?
Flor. Oh! yes, I love him all— All, for I am not vain. There is no thought Dividing the wild worship of my soul.
Eliz. And yet you spoke so carelessly, and trifled
With this the noblest and the best oblation,
A woman—but a poor divinity,
I fear at best, my Florence!—may receive,
The heart of a true gentleman. I mean
No creature of dull circumstance, himself
A mean incumbrance on his own great wealth.
How oft before their lovers women try
To seem what they are not—if true their hearts,
As thine is, apes not more fantastic show—
If mean and paltry, frankness is the flag
'Neath which they trim their pirate, little bark
To capture their rich prize—
Flor. Enough! enough!
I know it all, I cannot help it, if
He were here now, I could not choose but do it.
I have a head-ache. I must weep alone.
I pray you to excuse me for an hour.
[She goes out, R.S.E.]
Eliz. Poor girl! how needless is the pain she gives
Two true and faithful hearts—and I myself,
That never had the chance to love, or heart
To give away, yet seem to know so well
What it must be.—Oh, were I Florence now,
Could I have dealt so harshly with him?—No!
Why, one would think I lov'd him. She said so
But yesterday. Indeed I love them both—
Him for his love of her. Elizabeth!
Why burns thy cheek thus?—Yet a transient thought
Might stain the wanderings of a seraph's dream,
And thou art mortal woman. Oh, beware!
Dwell not on "might have," "could;" since "cannot be"
Points from thy past to thy futurity. [Exit, L.]
SCENE IV.
[4th Grooves.]
A rustic Garden, with an Arbour in F. A Table, on which are Books, Papers, &c.
Enter ARTHUR, U.E.R.
Arth. She's soul-less like the rest, and I am but
A tame romantic fool to worship her—
I will not see her more, and thus the faults
Which, from her beauty, seem'd like others' charms,
Shall give her semblance of a Gorgon—
No!
Rather her beauty will so soften down
In sweet forgetfulness of all beside,
That growing frenzied at the loss I find
E'en shipwreck'd hope were better than despair.
Here comes my friend.
Enter MILTON slowly, L.
Arth. Good even, Master Milton.
Mil. Ha! is it thou? my poor eyes are grown dim,
Methinks, with ever gazing back upon
The glorious deeds of ages long flown by.
Welcome, dear friend—most welcome to these arms.
Nay! it is kind to seek me thus—
Thine eyes
Are bright still; yet thy cheek is furrow'd more
Than should be; thou'rt not happy—Nay, I know,
Like all true hearts that beat in English breasts,
Thine must be most unhappy in these times—
Arth. I am so—
Mil. Thou hast fought well. I have heard it—
Arth. From Cromwell?
Mil. Yes, from him—
Arth. It is of him
That I would speak, as well as of this cause
That we call Freedom.
I have doubts of all
That urge this cruel war—Where is the end?
I fight against a tyrant, not a king
To set a tyrant up, or what is worse,
A hundred tyrants. Think you it may be
A struggle for the power they feign to hate!
Mil. What have you seen to make you think so!
Arth. Much!
The spirit of a demon host that strives
Each for himself against the common good,
Rather than that true patriot zeal of Rome
We us'd to read of—hatred, jealousy,
With the black ferment of the hungry mob
To gain by loss of others; and the aim
Of one man, more than all, seems set upon
An elevation high, as Hell is deep;
For such, if gain'd, the fit comparison.
Mil. The common error of a generous mind,
To do no good, and shrink within itself,
Sick of the jostling of the wolfish throng.
Your cause is just; though devils fight for it,
Heaven with its sworded angels doth enlist them:
So works a wise and wondrous Providence.
Arth. Tell me, what think you then of Cromwell?
Is he
Ambitious, cruel, eager, cunning, false,
Slave to himself and master sole of others?
Is his religion but as puppet-wires,
To set a hideous idol up of self,
Like some fierce God of Ind? Or is he but
A fiery pillar leading the sure way—
Arriv'd, content to die by his own light,
As others lived upon his burning truth,
And struggled to him from surrounding darkness?
Mil. There is much good in him, yet not all good;
And yet believe the cause he seeks divine.
Listen! this is the worst 'twere possible
To speak of him. He is a man,
Whom Heaven hath chosen for an instrument,
Yet not so sanctified, to such high use,
That all the evil factions of the heart,
Ambition, worldly pride, suspicion, wrath,
Are dead within him—and thus, mark you how
Wisdom doth shine in this, more than if pure,
With unavailing; excellent tears and woe,
He pray'd afar in dim and grottoed haunt
To quench the kingdom's foul iniquities—
An interceding angel had not done it
So well as this fierce superstitious man.
Arth. But if the king be prisoner and were slain?
Mil. I trust not that; yet kings are not divine—
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.
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.
Enter WILLIAM, with a letter in his hand, S.E.R.
Will. So now, a letter from my Master to his cousin, and then, of course, an answer to that. I had need go get myself fitted like Mercury, with wings at his heels. To be the lacquey of a man that hath quarrelled with his mistress! And to know the final issue all the time, that it is sure to be made up between them. And to hear him mutter "the last," between his teeth, while sealing it. He was to have journeyed this evening, too, but the General Cromwell, with a face very red and perturbed, and a nose as it were of lava; his wart being ignited like the pimple of a salamander, hath been desiring to see him instantly. There is something going to happen among them. Well, in these confused days, Since I'm of those that have got nought to lose, Perchance I may step in some richer shoes!
[Exit, L.]
Enter the HOST, partly undressed, in his sleep, with a candle in his hand. He walks carefully about the Room, and then exit, U.E.R. On the other side, as he goes out, enter WYCKOFF and BASIL, S.E.L.
Basil. I thought I heard a noise.
Wyck. 'Tis an old house, and probably there is a Parliament of grey rats busy. I mind well aboard ship, as I did once visit the hold, where we had store of ingots and bales of wealthy goods, I saw them sitting. I ordered the long boat to be cast loose and got ready, but said nothing, except to a few; for I knew something would happen; and sure enough in three days was a leak—whew! I hear the bubbling of the water now in my head—here I am, you see——
Basil. And the rest?—
Wyck. Are there! [Points downwards.] In the long-boat we found a very old rat; a tough morsel; but we ate him, and drank sea-water. We were forced to throw the gold overboard! [Looks around.] Is there nothing we can get to swig now?—
Basil. They are all abed.
Wyck. I hate the sound of snoring, when I am about at night. It puts one in mind of groans. Shall I rouse the host?—
Basil. No! no! to business—first to hide these papers.
Wyck. Ay! and about thy brother.
Basil. You see these letters addressed to me in his name by Sir Marmaduke Langdale, touching the rising in the North, I will place them under yon plank in the floor. 'Tis already loosened. Then, when he is accused to Cromwell, who hath strong doubts of him—I have seen to that; besides, I know him, he doth fear for the king, and will incense them all—I will have them found, and then—
Wyck. Why thou art Satan's trump-card! Mind I have been thy faithful tool, thy messenger, and love thee—thou mayest as well sign me the paper thou didst speak of—five hundred a year—I will then eschew dice and go live virtuously with a woman and repent my youthful misdeeds. I am not like thee, to sin when I have plenty.
Basil. Yes! yes! but come, assist—[They lift up a plank, U.E.L., in the floor, and deposit papers; as they do so, enter HOST, still asleep, U.E.R. He goes to a cup-board, which he opens, and then pouring out a glass of spirits—drinks, and gives a kind of satisfied grunt.] Hold! we are seen. [Draws a dagger.]
Wyck. [Springing up.] The devil! where is my knife?—Hist! Do you not see?—he sleeps. I have seen this before. Did I not tell you of the girl?—I have heard them teaze him about this. [To Basil.] Be quiet, fool! [They watch the HOST; he takes a pitcher of water and pours into the flask he had been drinking from.] The damned old thief! I could have sworn it yesterday. He waters his strong drink. That's why I have not been so well here. I have a cursed cholic these three days, and missed the warm nip it should give my stomach. The poisonous old dog!
Basil. Are you sure?
Wyck. Look at his eyes. You shall see me flourish my blade before them, and he shall not wink. But don't touch him. [He goes up to him and menaces him.] 'Tis all safe; he will go now. [The HOST replaces the things, and goes slowly out, U.E.R. The clock strikes twelve.] Come, let us see where he puts his keys. [They steal out after him.]
SCENE VI.
[Last Grooves.]
A large apartment dimly lighted. Tables with writing materials. A practicable door and stairs in L.F., practicable doors, R. and L.U.E.'S, chairs, &c.
CROMWELL enters, R., very much agitated, followed by his daughter ELIZABETH. After pacing across and back, he stops short in the middle of the stage and speaks.
Crom. Have I not promis'd thee that I will save him, If he will save himself? [To his daughter.]
Eliz. Thou hast, dear father.
And then, with blessings on thy righteous name,
Rejecting all they offer thee, vain titles,
And selfish, mean, dishonourable honours,
Thou wilt return unto our natural home
At Huntingdon, and I will read to thee,
As I was wont. Thy hair then will not whiten
So fast, and sometimes thou wilt have a smile
Upon thy countenance, that grows so stern
Of late, I hardly dare look up to thee,
And call thee "dearest father"—
Shall it be?
Did the king speak thee fair?
Crom. [Gloomily.] Too fair, too fair!
E'en to be honest fair. Our good John Milton
Speaks bitter words. He saith Lord Strafford grac'd
Right well the block, that put his trust in him.
What saith the Scripture of the faith of princes?
Eliz. 'Twas not the fault of Charles that Strafford died.
Crom. It was his fault to sign—
He should have died
Himself first. Daughter! urge me not—I'll do
What the Lord wills in this. Go! mind the household,
Thou little Royalist.
Eliz. Nay! father, hear me—
Crom. Away, puss! Where are Richard and thy husband?
Eliz. I will not leave thee, 'till thou promisest—
Crom. As the Lord liveth, is it not enough
To struggle with a royal hypocrite,
To keep his feet from falling, 'mid dissension,
On all sides, worse than chaos, liker hell!
To be thus baited, by one's own pale household,
Prating of what they may not understand?
Thy brother Richard with his heavy step,
Ploughing his way from book-cas'd room to room,
With eye as dull as huckster's three-day's fish,
And just as silent; then thy mother with
Her tearful and beseeching look, that moves
Like a green widow in a mourning trance,
The very picture of "God help us all;"
And thou, with sickly whining worse than they,
Do ye think I shall do murder?
Why not go
At once unto the foe, and there be spurn'd
By Henrietta, that false Delilah?—
Or plot my death for loyalty? What is
A father in your minds weigh'd with a king?
Yet what is "king" to you? ye were not bred
To lick his moral sores in ecstasy,
And bay like hounds before the royal gate
On all the world beside—Go hence! go hence!
I would be left alone—
Eliz. O father, hold!
And pardon me for my distracted thought.
Thou knowest best, and I am wrong indeed:
I did but pine to see thee more with us,
To see thee happier—
Crom. My child, my child!
Mercy shall look with eyes like thine on me
Though justice frown beside. [Takes her hand.]
Look up, my child!
Ask what thou wilt except our country's shame.
[Cromwell hands Elizabeth off, R., and remains looking after her.]
Enter, R.D.U.E., MILTON, IRETON, BRADSHAW, MARTEN, HARRISON (who brings a saddle and places it upon the table), LILBURNE, ARTHUR WALTON, LUDLOW. Enter, L., Sir HARRY VANE, HACKER, same time.
Brad. [A letter in his hand. To VANE and HACKER, who have just entered.] So, gentlemen—Had you been here just now, you would have heard at length, this precious information, which our worthy General Cromwell, and Ireton here, have laid before us. A letter to the Queen, and secret intercourse with France—a rare betrayal, and richly worded too. 'Tis well we have friends at court, ere now it had been at Dover.
Vane. I thought he did stand pledged to all we ask'd.
Har. The royal Judas! [Cromwell comes forward.]
Crom. O sirs! It is but A king's prerogative to break his faith. We are not fitting judges of this thing.
Har. But we will judge. I say, whose dogs are we!
Crom. Peace, Harrison. Thou naughty traitor! Peace.
Ireton. Away with all, save vengeance on the deed.
Brad. [After placing the letter in the saddle.]
There! in that greasy, patch'd and reeking leather,
Lies a king's royal word, a Stuart's honour,
The faith of Charles, his most majestic pledge
Broken, defil'd, dishonour'd evermore.
Har. Why cry ye not, "God save our righteous King"?
Crom. Through me, he did proclaim, he would accept
Our army's terms. Alas! had we been cozen'd,
I, that believed his false tongue, had betray'd
The hope of Israel—-
Vane. It is true, indeed, He is the slave of his pernicious Queen.
Mar. I say the King of England henceforth is An alien in blood, a bitter traitor— What doth he merit of us?
Ireton. This! 'Tis right That one man die for all, and that the nation For one man perish not—
Crom. Ho! what? son Ireton.
Vane. Alas! indeed he merits not to live.
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.
Mil. Oh, it was base
To use such means to gain such selfish end!
So I have heard,
There have been men, in such a hapless clime,
As this poor Ireland, unctuous, wordy men,
With slug-like skins, and smiling, cheerful faces,
That, with their pamper'd families, grew fat,
By bleeding Famine's well-nigh bloodless frame;
Lessening the pauper's bitter, scanty bread,
Season'd with salt tears; shredding finer still
The blanket huddled to the stone-cold heart
Of the wild, bigot, ghastly, dying wretch.—
Thus, for a devilish and unnatural gain,
Mowing the lean grass of a Golgotha!
Sitting, like grinning Death, to clutch the toll
Tortur'd from poverty, disease and crime;
And this with Liberty upon their lips,
Bland words, and specious, vulgar eloquence,
And large oaths, with the tongue thrust in the cheek,
And promises, as if they were as gods,
And no God held the forked bolt above!
Turning all ignorance, disaffection, hatred,
Religion, and the peasant's moody want,
To glut themselves with hard-wrung copper coins,
Verjuic'd with hot tears, thin and watery blood;
Brazening the conscious lie unto the world
That it was done for hallowing Freedom's sake,
Until the names of "Freedom," "Patriot," stank,
Blown on and poison'd by these beggar lips;
That men had need to coin fresh words to mean
The holy things with stale use so defil'd.
Arth. But Charles hath not done this! Our poet friend, Full of the knowledge of all times, hath painted A picture all in vain.