_Will._ Nay, I meant not to offend thee. Come, we part soon. My master will pay thee thrice that thou hast lost by this captain. _Host._ Pish! I care not for ten times the money. Thou understandest not the feelings of a tradesman. _Will._ Come along, come along. The boat stays under the bridge. Mistress Barbara is already on board the ship, and swears that tar is the perfumery of Satan. Come, I may never see thee again, and although we shall not moisten our parting with tears, it would scarcely, methinks, be appropriate that we should say to each other "God be with you!" thirsting. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. [_Last Grooves._] _Drawing-room at Whitehall, with practicable folding doors and curtains, in the last Cut, 3rd Grooves. A Nurse discovered in attendance. The Lady ELIZABETH is lying on a Couch, surrounded by the Family of CROMWELL. Her Sisters are kneeling around her._ _Eliz._ Leave me awhile; I shall be better soon. I would but see my father; pray you seek him, I wish to speak with him. _Lady Crom._ Nay, my sweet child, You must not be alone. _Eliz._ Dear mother, pardon, I shall be better. _Nurse._ The physician said She must not be denied the thing she asks. _Lady Crom._ Well, then--but let me cover thee, my sweet, The night is cold. _Eliz._ No! no! I scarce can breathe. _Lady Crom._ Indeed she mends, her eyes are brighter. Come. [_They rise, and go out quietly._] _Eliz._ [_Raising herself._] Unbare my beating bosom to the wind, And let the breath of Heaven wander through The dreary twilight of my tangled hair. Mine eyes shall never sparkle any more, Save with the fearful glitter of unrest; My cheeks flush not with any hope on earth; But with the live glow in their ash burn on. Death holds his Carnival of winter roses Till their last blossom drops within the grave. Hush! what was that? I thought I heard a noise: He comes, my father comes! Away all thought Of self--Away, base passion, that would bind My winged soul to earth,--hush! hush! he comes. [_Pause._] Twas but the night-wind's flagging breath! No sound Of mortal footstep, as it hither crept Tiptoe and carefully, 'twas like a murderer, That in his sleep walks forth. See, how he threads his way 'Mid all the antique chattels of the room Where it was none! Mark, where his careful feet Avoid yon blood-stains, though they shrink not when The grey rat courses o'er them! Nay, 'tis gone. A shape of fancy's painting to the sight. 'Twas but the wind, I said--whose fleeting voice The vaulted corridor did syllable aloud, Mingling my name with tombs. Again, I hear It is his heavy footstep-- _Enter CROMWELL, L._ Father! here Come close and press me warmly to thee, quick! Lest Death step in between us--' Reach me here That cup. My voice fails--not that hand! 'tis blood, [_He lets fall the cup._]