_Crom._ I trust thou art forgiven. _Pear._ I'd not speak Of deed of mine, my Lord. I did but think That in the sunlit tropics I had known The wantonness of cruelty; and seen Aged men grown grey in crime, whose hair thus blanch'd Show'd white, like sugar by hot blood refin'd. _Crom._ What of this!--Tell me what thou knew'st of them. _Pear._ I never knew desponding doubt or fear Curdle the healthy current of their veins; They never shudder'd at a blood-red kerchief, But on their shining knife-blades, as they smok'd On deck through the long summer noon, would show The dents and notches to their younger fellows, As thus--"This cut a Spanish merchant's throat, With wealthy ingots laden; this the rib-bone Of his lean Rib, that clutch'd an emerald brooch Too eagerly, hath rasp'd--and here, d'ye see a chip? This paid the reckoning of a skin-flint purser." _Crom._ What meanest thou by this?-- _Pear._ I mean, my Lord, The frequent gloom that clouds thy noble spirit, Is born of humours natural to thy body; And, as foul vapours blur the honest sun, Hangs o'er the face of the high enterprize, That hath enrich'd thy name, not harm'd thy soul. _Enter a Servant, L._ _Ser._ My Lord, good Master Milton waits without, Desiring presence of you.-- _Crom._ Pearson, go. I would see him alone. Perchance his words [_Exit PEARSON, L. Servant follows._] May ease my tortur'd breast. [_Rings a small bell. Enter a Servant, L._] Ask quickly, how My daughter fares, if she be better-- [_Servant crosses behind and exit, R._] Lo! If I should lose her. Nay! it cannot be. My thoughts seem driven like the wind-vex'd leaves That eddy round in vain: fy, fy upon me! Was not Saul doom'd? but David slew him not, Yet Heaven led him through the winding cave, Sealing the watchers' lids, and to his hand Gave the bright two-edg'd blade, that in his eyes Looked with cold meaning, bloodless it remain'd-- Would it were so now! _Servant re-enters, R._ _Ser._ She is worse, my Lord, And raves incessantly; the doctors shook Their heads when I did ask, and bade me tell you There is no hope-- _Crom._ [_Motions him to go._] Why comes not Master Milton? [_Servant crosses behind to L. sees Milton._] _Ser._ My Lord, he waits without for aid to enter. [_Exit Servant, L. and re-enters leading MILTON._] _Crom._ Good Milton, I am sick at heart. Think you the world Will judge me very harshly?-- _Mil._ Sir, believe By far the nobler half of England's hearts Will be yours, when long centuries have nurs'd The troubles of these frantic times to rest; The feverish strife, the hate and prejudice Of these days, soon shall fly, and leave great acts The landmarks of men's thoughts, who then shall see In these events that shake the world with awe, But a great subject, and a base bad king Interpreted aright.