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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d 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 superst.i.tious 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.dize 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 wa.s.sailing, 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.