Your time for speech will come. So much for justice; Now for yet larger duties: to our hands The peace and weal of England were consigned; These our first thought and duty. Should we loose Charles on the world again, 'twere to unleash Once more the Fiend of Carnage: should we guard {610} His person in our prison, still his name Would float, a wizard's standard, in the air, Rallying fresh war on Freedom; a fit theme To wake bad pity in the breasts of men; A focus for all faction here at home, And in the lewd courts of his brother kings. So but one choice remained: it was that choice Which (you are skilled methinks in classic lore, And prize such precedent,) the elder Brutus Made when he judged his children: such the choice Of his descendant—when, within the senate He sought to crush, the crafty Cæsar fell. CECIL. Cæsar may find his type amidst the living; And by that name our sons may christen Cromwell. CROMWELL. Men's deeds are fair enigmas—let man solve them! But men's dark motives are i' the Books of God. (_In a milder tone_) Cecil! thou wert as my adopted son. Hast thou not still fought by my proper person— Eat'n at my board—slept in my tent—conceived From me thy rudiments and lore of war— Hath not my soul yearned to thee—have I not Brought thee, yet beardless, into mark and fame— Given thee trust and honor—nay, to bind Still closer to my sheltering heart thine own— Have I not smiled upon thy love for Edith, (For I, too, once was young,) and bid thee find Thy plighted bride in my familiar kin— And wilt thou, in this crisis of my fate, When my good name stands trembling in the balance, And one friend wanting may abase the scale, Wilt thou thus judge me harshly—take no count Of the swift eddies of the whirlpool time, Which urge us on to any port for peace, And set the brand of thy austere rebuke Upon the heart that loved thee so? Fie! fie! CECIL. Arouse thine anger, Cromwell! rate me, vent Thy threats on this bare front—thy kindness kills me! CROMWELL. Bear with me, son, as I would bear with thee! Add not to these grim cares that press upon me. Eke thou not out the evils of the time; They are enow to grind my weary soul. Restrain the harsher thoughts, that would reprove, Until a calmer season, when 'tis given To talk of what hath been with tempered minds; And part we now in charity. CECIL. O Cromwell, If now we part, it is forever. Here I do resign my office in thy hands; Lay down my trust and charge,— CROMWELL. [_hastily_] I'll not receive them; Another time for this.