_Preach._ So, my beloved, this Ahab has lost his head, as it might be the froth of thin ale. I am thirsty in the flesh! Will no man be a surety for a poor preacher of the Lord at the sign of Balaam's Ass? 'Tis hard by; and I would speak a few more words of grace on this soul-stirring occasion, but my tongue is parched. Ho! every one that thirsteth, come unto me,--or I will go with you. _A Soldier._ Hold thy peace; for I would fain speak. This is a great day in Israel. _Preach._ Hear me, my brethren! This is a false prophet. _Sold._ Smite him! _Woman._ Nay, touch him an' you dare. [_To the Soldier._] 'Tis Master Ephraim Bumling. I would thy head were chopped off, like the sour-faced king's this morning. _1st Art._ Down with all kings! _2nd Art._ No taxes! _3rd Art._ We'll all be kings! _4th Art._ With our heads on, though. _1st Art._ Cease quarrelling, and come and play at skittles. _2nd Art._ With the king's head for a ball? _A Woman._ Ay, he was a bad man to his wife, and deserved to die. _3rd Art._ And a pagan Turk. _2nd Art._ That would have made all us Christians deny pork. _3rd Art._ And built ships with our houses. _2nd Art._ Well, it's a rare sight to see a king die. A bishop is something; but a king is a treat for a poor man's holiday. _1st Art._ But we shall not be poor now. _All._ Down with all kings! Live Cromwell! live the Parliament, live Fairfax, live everybody! [_Exeunt severally._] _Stage dark. The moon shines brilliantly upon the abbey._ _Enter CROMWELL, cloaked, U.E.R._ _Crom._ This night the place looks older than it is, As if some future centuries had pass'd, Leaving their shadows on it-- Yon tall towers, That pierce the unsettled sky, Seem not to point unto the stars that watch My coming greatness; but with solemn air To frown back on the memory of Cromwell-- Yon dark cathedral, whose sharp turret spires Look like funereal firs on Ararat, When the sun setting stream'd in blood upon The fast decaying waters--that huge pile Of gloomy worship to the God of ages, Feels like this age's tomb and monument. Would I were buried in it, so I might Sleep there--for O, I cannot sleep to-night. My molten blood runs singing through my veins. It is no wonder: I have known less things Disturb my rest; besides, there is a thought Hath led me forth--Come, let me deal with it.