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_Arth._ Then kill not Charles, For Charles the Second, reigns in England then.
_Crom._ Hum, perchance--
_Arth._ _He_ hath done us no offence, Ye would not slay him, if ye had him here.
I tell ye, banish Charles, this present man, And none shall question, whilst his feeble race And name shall dwindle hence, as shall arise The fair proportions of our Commonwealth On the decay of kings, not on the death Of one weak monarch.-- What! doth any here Wish that himself be king?
_Crom._ He raves!
_Vane._ Nay! listen!
He hath much reason.
_Crom._ [_Throws a cus.h.i.+on at Ludlow._] Ho! there regicide!
Have at thee! [_Confusion._]
_Arth._ [ Vainly attempts to speak.] Gentlemen, I say then--Hear!
[_MILTON and others commence leaving. LUDLOW pursues CROMWELL, who finally runs down stairs, pursued by the former._]
_Arth._ [_To Milton._] Nay! nay! my friend.
_Milt._ Another time.
This is not seemly.
_Har._ Surely, doth the Lord Need us elsewhere. Who holdeth forth below?
[_They all go but Arthur._]
_Re-enter CROMWELL from the stairs._
_Crom._ I do protest that I am out of breath-- Yet I commend thy reasoning.
_Arth._ But, my Lord.--
_Crom._ That rascal, Ludlow!
_Arth._ Will the trial be?
_Crom._ 'Twould justify us much.
_Arth._ But if he die--
_Crom._ [_In a hurried tone and walking off._]
It is not thy affair, or mine--Why now-- Let's talk anon, I'm tir'd. Hast thou seen My daughter Frances?--fares she well to-day?
Give me thine arm--I do admire thy reasons.
You see, these angry fanatics boil over; 'Twill simmer down anon--The king must live.
And yet he hath done much--wrought evil work, And so--
[_Exeunt. CROMWELL leaning on his arm and talking rapidly._]
END OF ACT III.
ACT IV
SCENE I.
[_2nd Grooves._]
_GURTON'S Ale House._
_Host and Guests._
_Host._ So they say the king is to die. Well, his head hath swung at my door many a year, and I cannot say but that there was custom. Good day to you, Master Gilead Stubbs, you have a good mile to walk. Shall the boy go with you?
_Mast. Stubbs._ Nay! nay! I thank you, I will with Master Jesson here. You have lost the Captain.
Where is he?--
_Host._ What, that Wyckoff? Gone, and his score left unpaid. Moreover, I think 'twas he that hid my keys.
_A Guest._ Ah! how was it?
_Host._ I have never lost them before. It was in my secret place, and yon Wyckoff had to do with it.
He was drunk the morning I missed them without being served. I am glad he is gone.
_Guests._ Good day, Master Newborn, good day.
_Host._ The Lord be with ye; [_Exeunt Guests._] and make sound vessels of ye! [_Aside._] for the holding of good liquor. This is the best company I have had for long. How restless I feel. I cannot help thinking of my dream, that Wyckoff and the other would have slain me, and 'twas in this very room. Let me see, I dreamt too they hid something--this plank seems loose. I could fancy now this were the f.a.g-end of my dream--[_Lifts the Plank._] What is here?--As I live, my keys, and a bundle of papers.-- [_Reads._] "To Master Arthur Walton?" Why, he hath not been here, for long. If now it 'twere Basil his brother and the Captain had left them here--from Sir Marmaduke Langdale too. Here is something wrong. I feel choked. Let me put them back. Why now, I could swear I had seen them placed there. It is very odd.
And to think of my keys too. I could fancy they were only skeletons. Yet I know their jingle well.
I'll to my brewer now, and, as there is no one here, I say [_looks round_] G.o.d keep the poor king's head on his shoulders, and may it be long ere he die on his bier! [_Exit, R._]
SCENE II.
[_1st Cut._] [_3rd Grooves._]
_An Apartment in Hampton Court. The LADY ELIZABETH reading. In an inner chamber are ARTHUR and FLORENCE.
Practicable door 2nd E.R._
[_ARTHUR is heard singing to a lute in the adjoining chamber._]
SONG
When thy lover, dear, is nigh thee, Look not on the world around, In his eyes be thy blue vision, In his eyes thy vision bound-- For thou'lt find all Heaven, I swear, By thy gaze reflected there!
In thy ripe lips is his summer, Autumn in thy braided hair; Jealous is he of spring's snow-drops Stolen from thy neck's warm care; But the winter of his mind Is when thou, love, art unkind: In thee rounded, thus, his year, Joy, doubt, sweet content, and fear.
