Part 15 (1/2)

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 wors.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+pwreck'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.