EDITH. Who knows Cromwell, Knows him as one inflexibly austere In what his head deems justice; but his heart Is mild, and shrinks from the uncalled-for shedding Ev'n of the meanest blood: yet would to Heaven, For his own peace, that he had been less great, Nor sate as judge in that most fearful court, Where either voice was peril. What the world Will deem his choice, lies doubtful in the clouds That shade the time. Thank God that we are women! LADY CLAYPOLE. Yea! in these hours of civil strife, when men Know not which way lies conscience, and the night Scares the soft slumbers from their haggard eyes By schemes of what the morrow shall bring forth, 'Tis sweet to feel our weakness, and to glide Adown the stream of our inactive thought!— While, on the bank, towers crash and temples fall, We sail unscath'd; and watch the unvex'd life Mirror that peaceful heaven, earth cannot mar! (_after a pause, with a smile_) Yet scarce indeed unvex'd, while one wild power Can rouse the tide at will, and wake the heart To tempest with a sigh;—nay, blush not, Edith. EDITH. I have no cause for blushes; and my cheek Did wrong my thought, if it did speak of shame. To love!—ah! 'tis a proud, a boastful joy, If he we love is worthy of our love! LADY CLAYPOLE. And that, in truth, is Cecil: with his name Honor walks spotless, and this stormy world Grows fair before his presence; in his tongue Lurks no deceit; his smile conceals no frown: Ev'n in his very faults, his lofty pride And the hot frankness of his hasty mood, There seems a heavenly virtue, by the side Of men who stalk around, and, if they win Truth to the soul, wear falsehood on the brow. EDITH. Speak thus forever, dearest! for his praise Makes thy voice music. Yes, he is all this; And I, whose soul is but one thought of him, Feel thought itself can compass not the girth Of his wide merit. Was I not right to say I could not blush to love him? Yet, methinks, Well might I blush to feel that one like Cecil Has love for Edith! LADY CLAYPOLE. If, sweet coz, I cease To praise him, it shall be for sweeter words Ev'n than his praise! EDITH. Impossible! LADY CLAYPOLE. And yet, Were I a maid that loved as Edith loves, Tidings of him I loved were sweeter words Ev'n than his praise. EDITH. Tidings!—Oh, pardon, coz!— Tidings from Spain? LADY CLAYPOLE. No, Edith, not from Spain; Tidings from London. Cecil is returned. Just ere we met, his courier's jaded steed Halted below. Sir Hubert had arrived, And, on the instant, sought my father. EDITH. Come! And I to hear it from another's lips! LADY CLAYPOLE. Nay, coz, be just: with matters of great weight— Matters that crave at once my father's ear— {607} Be sure that he is laden. (_Enter a Servant_)