_Mar._ I say the King of England henceforth is An alien in blood, a bitter traitor-- What doth he merit of us? _Ireton._ This! 'Tis right That one man die for all, and that the nation For one man perish not-- _Crom._ Ho! what? son Ireton. _Vane._ Alas! indeed he merits not to live. _Brad._ What say ye? _Ireton._ Death! _Mar. Har. Lilb. Lud. Hacker._ [_Severally._] Death! Death! _Brad._ I think, Sir Harry, You said, "not live," the others all say, "Death," Why then we are agreed-- Stay! General Cromwell, There was no word from you-- _Crom._ I thought to save My breath; ye were so eager. _Arth._ Hold, a moment. I do desire your ears-- _Crom._ Our _ears_? Your _years_ Should teach you silence, sir! before your elders, Till they have said-- We would hear Master Milton: He hath to speak. [_To Milton._] What think you of the man, The king, that arm'd the red, apostate herd In Ireland against our English throats? Was it well done; deserves it that we crouch? _Mil._ Oh, it was base, degrading and unhappy, To make God's different worship, damning means Of an unholy war between his people; To be the beggar of his people's blood, To set that crown upon his false, weak brow, His pale, insolvent, moat dishonour'd brow, From which, too wide, it slipp'd into the mire, To fit him ne'er again.-- _Crom._ A right good figure! Who'll pluck the crown from out this royal mire? _Mar._ They say his queen, our foreign, English queen, Doth ofttimes antler him; perchance 'tis reason Why his crown fits him not. _Mil._ Oh, it was base To use such means to gain such selfish end! So I have heard, There _have_ been men, in such a hapless clime, As this poor Ireland, unctuous, wordy men, With slug-like skins, and smiling, cheerful faces, That, with their pamper'd families, grew fat, By bleeding Famine's well-nigh bloodless frame; Lessening the pauper's bitter, scanty bread, Season'd with salt tears; shredding finer still The blanket huddled to the stone-cold heart Of the wild, bigot, ghastly, dying wretch.-- Thus, for a devilish and unnatural gain, Mowing the lean grass of a Golgotha! Sitting, like grinning Death, to clutch the toll Tortur'd from poverty, disease and crime; And this with Liberty upon their lips, Bland words, and specious, vulgar eloquence, And large oaths, with the tongue thrust in the cheek, And promises, as if they were as gods, And no God held the forked bolt above! Turning all ignorance, disaffection, hatred, Religion, and the peasant's moody want, To glut themselves with hard-wrung copper coins, Verjuic'd with hot tears, thin and watery blood; Brazening the conscious lie unto the world That it was done for hallowing Freedom's sake, Until the names of "Freedom," "Patriot," stank, Blown on and poison'd by these beggar lips; That men had need to coin fresh words to mean The holy things with stale use so defil'd.