_Couthon._ 'Twere folly sure to work great deeds by halves! Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart Of cold Barrere! _Robespierre._ I see the villain in him! 115 _Robespierre Junior._ If he--if all forsake thee--what remains? _Robespierre._ Myself! the steel-strong Rectitude of soul And Poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues! The giant Victories my counsels form'd Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes, 120 Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless. [_Exeunt caeteri. Manet COUTHON._ _Couthon (solus)._ So we deceive ourselves! What goodly virtues Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition! Still, Robespierre! thou'lt guard thy country's freedom To despotize in all the patriot's pomp. 125 While Conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding clamours, Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers--blood-stain'd tyrant! Yet what is Conscience? Superstition's dream, Making such deep impression on our sleep-- That long th' awakened breast retains its horrors! 130 But he returns--and with him comes Barrere. [_Exit COUTHON._ _Enter ROBESPIERRE and BARRERE._ _Robespierre._ There is no danger but in cowardice.-- Barrere! we _make_ the danger, when we _fear_ it. We have such force without, as will suspend The cold and trembling treachery of these members. 135 _Barrere._ 'Twill be a pause of terror.-- _Robespierre._ But to whom? Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest, Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors! Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak! A pause!--a _moment's_ pause?--'Tis all _their life_. 140 _Barrere._ Yet much they talk--and plausible their speech. Couthon's decree has given such powers, that-- _Robespierre._ That what? _Barrere._ The freedom of debate-- _Robespierre._ Transparent mask! They wish to clog the wheels of government, Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine 145 To bribe them to their duty--_English_ patriots! Are not the congregated clouds of war Black all around us? In our very vitals Works not the king-bred poison of rebellion? Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings 150 Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears Of him, whose power directs th' eternal justice? Terror? or secret-sapping gold? The first Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it; And to the virtuous patriot rendered light 155 By the necessities that gave it birth: The other fouls the fount of the republic, Making it flow polluted to all ages: Inoculates the state with a slow venom, That once imbibed, must be continued ever. 160 Myself incorruptible I ne'er could bribe them-- Therefore they hate me.