_Crom._ [_Aside._] My child! my child! She is dying, and condemns me--[_to Milton_] Thou art wise, Prudent, and skill'd in learned rhetorick-- Think'st thou 'twere sad to gaze upon the look, That sudden on the harlot's painted features, Set in the stale attraction of forc'd smiles, Darkens so wildly--that, like one amaz'd, From the crack'd glass she staggers, to her brow Lifts her wan, jewell'd finger--tries to think? The wanton provocation of her features Chang'd all to sickly twilight, blank dismay-- And when thought comes, to see the poor wretch quiver, Her eyes' fire turn'd to water--those blue eyes, Where once sweet fancies woven danc'd in fight-- To see the Present, Future, Past, appal her?-- The Spectre of her grown up life arise Ever between her childhood's innocent dawn, And the lost thing, herself--to see her choke Upon her scanty food?--see grim Despair Clutch her polluted bosom?--see her teeth, Pearls that have outliv'd their neglected home, Shine whiter in that ruin?-- _Mil._ 'Twere a sight To bid the palsied heart of Lewdness grieve, Youth grow a hermit, Age old vices leave! _Crom._ Yet hast thou ne'er beheld the thing, I say?-- Thou answerest me not. I know thy life; 'Twas ever pure; still thou art of this world, And so hast read their living epitaph, Whose souls being buried in lust's grave, at night Their mortal frames walk forth--reversing death. I ask thee, then, dost thou not know the thing That I have painted? _Mil._ [_Aside._] Is his mind distraught? [_Aloud._] I have seen this, and more. What of it? _Crom._ Thus! Shall he that caus'd it suffer? _Mil._ On his Mood Vampires should batten-- _Crom._ Yet, 'tis like she met His guilty thought half-way; 'twas in the course Of nature, when the blood is hot. Contention Led both to the encounter. When youth sins, Reason flies daunted--to return with arms Poison'd and terrible.-- _Mil._ The lean excuse Of whirlwind Passion's victims. Homicide, Murder, theft, rapine, plead it-- _Crom._ Think you then, Should one array'd in reasoning manhood's arms Have done this? Were the victim bright and good, Round whose young heart sweet household fancies play'd, Each natural thought of her enthusiast mind Pure as the snow that softly veils the earth 'Tween Christide eve and morning white-enrob'd; And yet her sum of suffering were great As that, which I have painted for the child Of sin and misery--her silken cheek Defil'd by ashen trace of furrowing tears, Her sinless eye dim as a Magdalen's; And he that caus'd it lov'd her as a father, Knowing no fiery passion, unchaste thought, To rob him of his brain, his heart, and then-- _Mil._ There's no such thing! _Crom._ There is, I say, here! here! _Mil._ Lord General, I stand amazed!