[_As STRAFFORD opens the door, PYM is discovered with HAMPDEN, VANE, etc. STRAFFORD falls back; PYM follows slowly and confronts him._ _Pym._ Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose sole sake I still have labored for, with disregard To my own heart,--for whom my youth was made Barren, my manhood waste, to offer up Her sacrifice--this friend, this Wentworth here-- Who walked in youth with me, loved me, it may be, And whom, for his forsaking England's cause, I hunted by all means (trusting that she Would sanctify all means) even to the block Which waits for him. And saying this, I feel No bitterer pang than first I felt, the hour I swore that Wentworth might leave us, but I Would never leave him: I do leave him now. I render up my charge (be witness, God!) To England who imposed it. I have done Her bidding--poorly, wrongly,--it may be, With ill effects--for I am weak, a man: Still, I have done my best, my human best, Not faltering for a moment. It is done. And this said, if I say ... yes, I will say I never loved but one man--David not More Jonathan! Even thus, I love him now: And look for my chief portion in that world Where great hearts led astray are turned again, (Soon it may be, and, certes, will be soon: My mission over, I shall not live long,)-- Ay, here I know I talk--I dare and must, Of England, and her great reward, as all I look for there; but in my inmost heart, Believe, I think of stealing quite away To walk once more with Wentworth--my youth's friend Purged from all error, gloriously renewed, And Eliot shall not blame us. Then indeed.... This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears increase Too hot. A thin mist--is it blood?--enwraps The face I loved once. Then, the meeting be! _Strafford._ I have loved England too; we'll meet then, Pym. As well die now! Youth is the only time To think and to decide on a great course: Manhood with action follows; but 'tis dreary, To have to alter our whole life in age-- The time past, the strength gone! As well die now. When we meet, Pym, I'd be set right--not now! Best die. Then if there's any fault, fault too Dies, smothered up. Poor grey old little Laud May dream his dream out, of a perfect Church, In some blind corner. And there's no one left. I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym! And yet, I know not: I shall not be there: Friends fail--if he have any. And he's weak, And loves the Queen, and.... Oh, my fate is nothing-- Nothing! But not that awful head--not that! _Pym._ If England shall declare such will to me....