wolves rend the stricken deer.

3rd Poach. Well, now, I thank thee, friend Gregory. Thou art a true man. I will so belabour and flay any of the cyder-blooded rascals, an thy bitch shall hold him; 'twill do a man good to hear of it.

1st Poach. I know the bitch. She'll kill them outright! These be right times. There be no inquests now, Master Gregory?

4th Poach. What's that to me more than you others? I did not murder him!

1st Poach. Who? The Puritan young gentleman whom Noll the brewer, that is general now, made such a stir about—

3rd Poach. As if plenty didn't die in these wars—

1st Poach. Or the girl, Gregory! eh? the girl by the well, with her finger cut, and her throat—

4th Poach. Damn thee, have done! She was dead, ere I found her, and I did but take—

1st Poach. The ring, thou wouldst say.

2nd and 3rd Poach. Come, confess now!

Arth. [Aside] This is black devilry. Alas! poor England!
How many private, sleeping villanies
Now wake to horrid life that else had slept,
But for the times' most bloody anarchy?

2nd Poach. They say this Cromwell is near these parts.

4th Poach. I heard another speak! [Loud] I never saw the girl till she was brought in, I tell ye.

2nd Poach. I heard it too.

1st Poach. 'Twas a cricket, or some such fowl.

3rd Poach. There's some one near. Look sharp!

4th Poach. Let's beat about— [Loudly] As for the girl, I saw her brought in. 'Twas a piteous sight—A love business, mark ye! I did not find her. [They discover ARTHUR.]

1st Poach. Ha!

4th Poach. Silence him!

3rd Poach. Curse thee, what brings thee here?—

Arth. Offhands! ye know me not. [To 4th POACHER.] Thou murderous dog! Wilt cut my throat as thou didst hers?—

[4th POACHER staggers back.]

4th Poach. Will no one finish him? 'Tis a spy; he will tell of ye all.

[ARTHUR struggles and they strike at him.]

[Enter CROMWELL, R.U.E.]

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!

Crom. Sirrah! move That carrion. [WILLIAM going up to his Master.]

Will. Sir! I wait on this gentleman. What a look! [Aside.] I am sure he is either the devil, or some great Christian. [Aloud.] 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. Yet I could not help it.
[TO ARTHUR.]
How farest thou now?

Arth. Good sir, I thank you for My life so promptly sav'd—not courtesy, But breath did fall me.

Crom. 'Tis a fearful thing That I have done. A life! I might have struck Less fiercely. God forgive me for the deed. [To Arthur.] Would he have slain thee?

Arth. 'Twas a murderer Most double-dyed in blood. I heard them speak His guilt.—

Crom. O, I could weep! and yet his death Had the best reason for't. Whence comest thou, sir?

Arth. I am but late returned unto this land.

[Re-enter WILLIAM.]

Will. Yes! yes, from Italy, Rome, gracious sir! Us'd to these things, you see—

Crom. Peace, knave, thou scoffest! Revilest thou; because a fellow-sinner's dead? Shame be upon thee!

Will. [Aside.] If I should be impertinent to him, 'twill be behind his back. He hath a quelling eye; although a man fear not. Now, amidst other brave men with swords, he would be as one that carried sword, and petronel to boot.

Crom. [To Arthur.] I fain would hear from thee, young sir,
More of the land from whence thou comest. 'Tis
My hap, I thank God's holy will, to stay
In this my country, lifting now her head
From the curst yoke of proud Idolatry,
Lately so vexing her, I thought to leave,
A little while ago, her shores for ever,
Unto the new Jerusalem, beyond
The western ocean, where there are no kings,
False worship, or oppression—but, no more.
What say'st thou of this Italy? John Milton
Loves well to speak romantic lore of Rome—
A poet, though a great and burning light.
I would have knowledge of it to confound him;
A sober joke, a piece of harmless mirth.
What think'st thou then of Rome where Brutus liv'd?

Arth. 'Tis the decay of a once splendid harlot,
Painting her ruin, that the enthusiast eye
Lives on the recollection still, and thus
The alms of passers by still meet her cravings.
She stands, her scarr'd proud features mock'd with rags,
Fixt at the end of a great thoroughfare,
With shrill gesticulation, fawning ways,
Clinging unto the traveller to sustain
Her living foul decay, and death in life,
She is the ghoul of cities; for she feeds
Upon the corpse of her own buried greatness.

Crom. Doubtless thou hast seen much to fill thy mind With such disgust.

Arth. Good, sir! I did scarce feel it, Till I return'd.

Will. Nay, sir! I do remember as we stood in the mouldy big Circus, having sundry of the lousy population idling within, whereby I did then liken it to a venerable cheese, in which is some faint stir of maggotry, that thou didst make a memorable speech against the land, where the only vocation of a nobleman is to defile the streets and be pimp to his own wife.

Arth. Cease, cease, yet there is truth in what he says.

Crom. Yet are there not amends in poetry,
Art, science, and a thousand delicate thoughts
Glowing on canvass, chisell'd in cold forms,
The marbled dreams of sculptor's classic brain?
Milton hath told of these.

Arth. Alas! 'tis but
Corruption's gilding. 'Tis the trick of vice
Full oft to pander in a graceful form;
But when the finer chords of hearts are set
In eyes glued to a dancer's feet, or ears
Strain'd to