Alfred Bate Richards

“ Basil. No! I think not. I'll take it. Think you of Your promise—will you keep it?
Flor. Yes! yes! if I live A month, I will be thine.
Basil. Tis well! I go:
I am a little lame, but shall be there,
I do protest, in time. They give some moments
To stale device of prayer; as if they car'd
For him they slay—What! anxious? So am I,
That have so great a stake in this event,
To save a brother and to gain a wife—
[Kisses the tips of his fingers.]
A rivederci, as the Italian saith. [Goes out, U.E.R.]
Flor. The hands of yonder clock do pierce my heart
Like daggers till he comes. O God! ”

“ 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. ”

“ Pear. Madam, with a love Born of those moments when men's lives are cheap.
[Looks at CROMWELL.]
The dark fit is upon him. I have found
'Tis best to leave him to himself;—
Eliz. No! no!
There is no time. My breath is short. O Pearson,
Rouse him from that cold torpor, ere I die.
Life will not turn my hour-glass any more,
Whose thin sands, sinking at their centre fast,
Ebb hollowly away. I would but speak
A few soft words of comfort, pray him to
Repent; there is repentance,—for his heart
Sinn'd not so deeply as the world may think. ”

“ Enter CROMWELL, L.
Father! here
Come close and press me warmly to thee, quick!
Lest Death step in between us—'
Reach me here
That cup. My voice fails—not that hand! 'tis blood,
[He lets fall the cup.]
As in my dreams. I would assoil him. Father!
'Tis said, upon the giddy verge of life
The eye grows steady, and the soul sees clear
Thought guiding action in all human things,
Not in the busy, whirling masque of life,
Reality unreal, but in truth. ”

“ Thou art of us. Thy heart, thy tongue, thy sword.
Are ours—now good night! [With emotion.]
Sir, this poor land
Needs all her honest children—noble sorrow,
And yet a cheerful spirit to assert
The truth of right, yea! God's eternal truth,
Lest the world die a foolish sacrifice
And perish flaming in the night of space,
An atheist torch to warn the universe—
Smile not, I pray thee. We meet soon; farewell!
[Exit CROMWELL, L.]
Arth. A rude and uncurb'd martialist!—and yet
A God-intoxicated man. 'Tis not
A hypocrite, too haggard is his face,
Too deep and harsh his voice. ”

“ 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 ”

“ Look there! There is happiness—there's fish-hooks and broken glass bottles and tin-tacks in your gullet. Stomach that. Tol de rol!
Host. While now they are here, I have a great mind to charge that Wyckoff with my little bill!
Basil. O guilt, guilt, guilt!
Success ne'er lit yet on thy feeble brow,
But ever mock'd thee with dissembling leer,
Whilst at thy feet graves open, at thy heart
Remorse points daggers, and thou walk'st the world,
Blood on thine hand and fever in thine eye,
Friendless, by that thou lovest scorn'd the most.
Arthur. [To Florence.] Thou wilt live now? ”

“ 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! ”

“ Will. Substance? Why there is scarcely a doorway thou canst pass through; and if one of Hell's gate-posts be not put back a foot or two, thou wilt be left, at thy latter end, like a huge undelivered parcel in the lumber-room of Charon.
Host. I know not any carrier of that name, but 'tis ill twitting a man, when he is in earnest, and did I not love thee, and were this not a day of rejoicing, thou shouldest drink no more out of mine own silver flagon.
Will. Nay, I meant not to offend thee. Come, we part soon. My master will pay thee thrice that thou hast lost by this captain. ”

“ Thy moist and crimson lip tempts wildly—come!
For thou art beautiful, and thy light step
Shall on the hills be glorious, when thou'rt given
A help-mate unto Israel—
Flor. Never!
Basil. How?— Hast thou not sworn?
Flor. There is a point where all
That binds the struggling wretch to aught on earth,
Be it a bond of hate and grief like mine,
Or sweet communion of young hearts that love,
Be it a sacrifice to infamy, or pride
Of mothers in their offspring, or the work
Of master-spirits' high philosophy,
Doth rank with things that were—
Basil. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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.] ”

“ 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. ”

“ So, my beloved, this Ahab has lost his head, as it might be the froth of thin ale. I am thirsty in the flesh! Will no man be a surety for a poor preacher of the Lord at the sign of Balaam's Ass? 'Tis hard by; and I would speak a few more words of grace on this soul-stirring occasion, but my tongue is parched. ”

“ Why then stand there, till we come back again. 'Tis time to part—Come, Ludlow!
Arth. Hath he not
Virtues that might rebuke us all?—ay, virtues
More excellent in him than all his subjects, since
All Sin doth aim at Kings, to be her own.
'Tis hard for princes to outshine in worth
The meanest wretch that from his road-side hovel
Shouts forth with hungry voice, "Long live the King!"
Crom. O wise and excellent argument, that
There should be no more kings.
Why spoil a man
That hath a soul, a precious soul, to lose,
To make a king that cannot help but sin? ”

“ I will, my Lord! [Moves the body.] Come along! To think now this dead, two-legged thing should have been active enough just now to catch a four-footed live deer. No sooner does a man die, but you would think he had swallowed the lead of his coffin. Come along! Lord! how helpless it is! Why, he shall no more kick at his petty devouring, no, no more than if he were a dead king! [Exit with body, U.E.L.]
Crom. Ha! 'Tis well said.
Would that this blood had not been shed.
'Tis dreadful
To send a soul destroy'd to plead against
The frail destroyer. ”

“ I am ill myself.
'Twas a sore trial, ye have heard of it—
The man must die—
Eliz. No! father, as you hope For mercy, no!
Crom. Peace, simpleton. It was The voice of all this people.
Arth. General, hear me: Thou hadst the power to save—
Crom. Ay! Master Walton, Thou thinkest so?—
Arth. I do!—
Crom. And dar'st to speak it?
Arth. Dare! General Cromwell! [Takes off his sword.] Here, look, is my sword, I'll never more bear arms with thee or thine.
Crom. I do protest thou wilt not—
Take his sword; [To an Officer.] ”

“ 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.] ”

“ 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.] ”

“ 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. ”

“ Crom. Who be these knaves? What, murder! Ha! then strike: Down with the sons of Belial!
[Strikes down 4th POACHER with his sword. The rest fly.]
The Lord is merciful to thee, young man! [To ARTHUR.]
Another moment, and thy soul had fled—
Wherefore, I hope, since it hath chanced so,
And yet not chanc'd, since 'tis appointed thus,
That no one falls or lives, unless the God
Of battles hath decreed. Wherefore I trust
Thou art of the good work.
[Enter WILLIAM, R.]
Will. My master bloody?— A dead man on the ground!—a knight of the road by his looks— [Sees CROMWELL.] What a grim stranger! ”