id="id00212">[They drag WILLIAM down (the HOST vainly endeavouring to interfere) and buffet him; as Sin-Despise draws his sword, the trumpets sound outside to saddle.]

[Enter HARRISON, R.S.E.]

Har. Why dally ye? Away! Smite hip and thigh.
To horse, to horse! what ho! Zerubbabel!
Mount, mount, I say, for bloody Goring's near—
To saddle, ho!

[They immediately fall into line, and leave quickly, L. The trumpets are still heard sounding. Exeunt all but HOST and WILLIAM, who arranges his collar and adjusts himself.]

Host. [Breathless.] What thinkest thou of this?

Will. Think! what of? Thy late wife's virtue? I would she were here.

Host. These be now your civil wars: didst mark? he said all should have been paid. Now, with them that were here, there were some fourscore and ten quarts that might have been drunk, had they staid an hour or so; and now to ride off thirsty to be killed.

Will. Well, it might have been worse, for they might have drunk it, and departed in that military haste which precludes payment.

Host. Ay! ay! thou wilt have thy jest.

[Exit into house.]

[Enter ARTHUR WALTON, L.]

Arth. Where hast thou been so long?

[To WILLIAM.]

Will. Truly at the burial of one Generosity!

Arth. And what manner of person was he?

Will. A fool in this world, but an angel of light in the next; if the word of God be true, which I remember to have heard in my childhood in the church there.

Arth. And how was he buried?

Will. About the setting of the sun, when he had no more to give. I saw none in the garb of mourning, though many wore long faces, because their gain was stopped.

Arth. And what wrote they on his tomb?

Will. Other names than his own. Extravagance, folly, imprudence, were the best terms there. One whom he had released from gaol, carved madness with a flint stone. There was but one would have painted his true name, but his tears defaced it—a humble dependent, who had been faithful to him, but whom he regarded not, being accustomed to his services.

Arth. Out! rogue! I have humoured thee too long, leave thy rascal allegory. Hast seen my brother?

Will. Ay, and thy cousin. She is a rare girl, and remembereth thee well. Thy brother is not attached to thee. He will give thee five hundred pounds if thou wilt swear to quit England for ever. He abuseth thee finely, saith thou art a debauched vagabond, which is an insult to me thy serving companion, whom he threatened with the stocks. Wilt thou not slay him?

Arth. O monstrous! Can it be? Fool that I have been. My father, thou wert right, indeed!

Will. Thy cousin would see thee. She is miserable about something, and will be here presently.

Arth. I will wither him with my reproaches.

Will. You have bad stuff to deal with. He will not become good suddenly, as in some stage-plays. You shall not frown him into a virtuous act. Nevertheless, abuse him, an 'twill do thee good. Look you, dear master, I will describe him. He hath a neat and cheerful aspect, and talketh very smoothly; nay, for a time he shall agree with everybody, that you shall think him the most good-natured fellow alive; he shall be as benevolent as a lawyer nursing his leg, whilst he listens to the tale of him whom his client oppresseth, and you shall win him just as easily. Let the question of gain put him in action, and the devil inside shall jump out, like an ape stirred up to malice. He affects, too, a vulgar frankness, which is often the mask of selfishness, as a man who helps himself first at table with a "ha! ha!" in a facetious manner, a jocose greediness, which is most actual, real earnest within.

Arth. Alas! If this be true, what chance have I? for such a one as thou describest would call charity herself a cheat, and deem the emotion of an angel morbid generosity.

Will. Bless you, he hath reasons! he would refuse tenpence to a starving wretch, because he owed ten pounds to his shoemaker, though he had ten thousand in his coffers at home. Yet would he still owe the ten pounds.

Arth. Nay, cease! I love not to hear it.

Will. And yet so meanly would he adopt appearances in the world's eye, that should he have to cross a muddy street where a beggar kept a passage clear with his besom, lest the gallants should soil their bravery, he would time his crossing, till one driven, or on horseback, should be near, that he might pass hurriedly on without giving him a groat, as in fear of being o'erridden. Like Judas—

Arth. Cease! cease! I bid thee cease!

Will. Thy cousin is very beautiful and gentle.

Arth. I will but see her, then my sword must carve my fortunes. Did she speak kindly of me? Alas! I need some welcoming. Go seek her. It is time.

[Exit WILLIAM, R.]

O sweet hour!
In yonder heaven deep the stars are lit
For evening service of seraphic quires—
Eternal pomp of serried, blazing worlds,
The heraldry of God, ere yet Time was.
The moon hangs low, her golden orb impearl'd
In a sweet iris of delicious light,
That leaves the eye in doubt, as swelling die
Round trills of music on the raptur'd ear,
Where it doth fade in blue, or softly quicken.
How, through each glade, her soft and hallowing ray
Stole like a maiden tiptoe, o'er the ground,
Till every tiny blade of glittering grass
Was doubled by its shadow.
Can it be,
That evil hearts throb near a scene like this?
And yet how soon comes the Medusa, Thought,
To chill the heart's blood of sweet fantasy!
For, O bright orb!
That glid'st along the fringe of those tall trees,
Where a child's thought might grasp thee,
Art thou not
This night in thousand places hideous? To think
Where thy pale beams may revel—on the brow
Of ghastly wanderers, with the frozen breast
And grating laugh, in murder's rolling eye,
On death, corruption, on the hoary tomb,
Or the fresh earth-mould of a new-made grave,
On gaping wounds, on strife,—the pantomime
Of lying lips, and pale, deceitful faces—
Ay! searching every scene of rank pollution,
In each foul corner busy as at play,
With new horror gilding vice, disease, decay,
Boast not, pale moon! to me thy harlot ray!

[Enter WILLIAM, R.]

Will. Sir, they come! Your collar is unfasten'd and your hair disorder'd. Let me—[Attempts to adjust AUTHUR'S dress.]

Arth. Heed it not! I thought you knew me better.

Will. Just a moment.—

Arth. No! yet will I meet her softly.
She is the only creature of her sex,
For whom I feel some kindness; 'tis because
I knew her ere I knew the world beside,
And all the lie of passion, that is nurs'd
For long in early blighted hearts alone,
Whom rank possession of the thing they pin'd for,
Had cured in one short month.—Well, I'll be kind,
Nay more, affectionate—

[Enter FLORENCE and BARBARA, R. He salutes her distantly.]

Fair mistress, thus
I claim a