_Arth._ But not destroy-- _Mil._ 'Twould heal the sight of millions yet unborn. _Arth._ In this I am not with you; yet I grant So far 'tis well. I trust a different end. The king, that hath much noble feeling in him, Will yield; and then we will give back again His just prerogative-- _Mil._ It may be so. Where is the high-soul'd Stratford?--The same weakness That yielded there is obstinacy now, To the last drop of the pride-tainted blood That through the melancholy Stuart's veins Doth creep and curdle-- _Arth._ You do make me sad-- _Mil._ Nay, there is sadness in the noble task Appointed us. An hour past came Cromwell here As full of sorrow for the king; as thou-- Hating the sour and surly Presbyter And bitter wrath of the fierce Parliament. He parted from me in an angry mood Because I coldly met his warm desire That Charles might reign again-- _Arth._ Indeed! Is't so? _Enter a Servant to MILTON, R._ _Serv._ There is a messenger would see you, sir! _Mil._ I will be back anon, pray rest awhile. [_Goes out, R. Servant follows MILTON._] _Arth._ He should be right, that is so wise and good, Living like some angelic visitant, Dismay'd not from his purpose and great aim By all the fierce and angry discord round. So one in sober mood and pale high thought Stands in a door-way, whence he sees within The riot warm of wassailing, and hears All the dwarf Babel of their common talk, As each small drunken mind floats to the top And general surface of the senseless din; Whilst every tuneless knave doth rend the soul Of harmony, the more he hath refus'd To sing; ere Bacchus set him by the ears With common sense, his dull and morning guide; And stutterers speak fast, and quick men stutter, And gleams of fitful mirth shine on the brow Of moody souls, and careless gay men look Fierce melodrama on their friends around; While talk obscene and loyalty mark all; Then good or bad emotions meet the eye, Like a mosaic floor, whose black and white Glistens more keenly, moisten'd by the stain Of liquor widely spilt. _Re-enter Servant, R._ _Serv._ Sir! will you enter? 'Tis Master Andrew Marvel that is here. [_Exeunt, R._] SCENE V. [_1st Cut._] [_3rd Grooves._] _A Room in GURTON'S Alehouse. Night._ _Enter WILLIAM, with a letter in his hand, S.E.R._