CROMWELL. 'Tis a goodly youth; Brave and sound hearted, but of little faith, Nor suited to the hunger of these times, Which feeds on no half acts! And for that cause, And in that knowledge, when we had designed To bring the King to London, I dismissed him {609} With letters into Spain. We must not lose him! He is of noble birth; his house hath wealth; His name is spotless:—he must not be lost! IRETON. And will not be retained! CROMWELL. Methinks not so. He hath the folly of the eyes of flesh, And loves my niece; by that lure shall we cage him. IRETON. Yet he is of a race that, in these times, Have fallen from the righteous. CROMWELL. Ay, and so The more his honest courage. In the day When the king's power o'erflowed, and all true men Joined in a dyke against the lawless flood, His sire and I were co-mates—sate with Pym; On the same benches—gave the self-same votes; But when we drew God's sword against the king, And threw away the sheath, his fearful heart Recoiled before the act it had provoked; And, halting neuter in the wide extremes, Forbade his son to join us. IRETON. But the youth— CROMWELL. More bravely bent, forsook the inglorious sire, And made a sire of Cromwell. In my host There was not one that loved me more than Cecil! Better in field than prayer, and more at home Upon his charger than his knee, 'tis true; But to all men their way to please the Lord! To heaven are many paths! IRETON. So near to thee, And knew not of the end for which we fought? Dreamt he it was against the man called king, And not against the thing called kingly? CROMWELL. So The young man dreamed; and oft-times he hath said When after battle he hath wiped his sword, Oft hath he sighing said, ‘These sinful wars— Brother with brother, father against son, Strife with her country, victory o'er her children— How shall they end? If to the hollow word Of this unhappy king no truth is bound, Shall the day come when he, worn out with blood, Will yield his crown to his yet guiltless son, And we made sure of freedom by firm laws, Chain the calm'd lion to a peaceful throne?’ IRETON. The father's leaven still! most foolish hope To plaster with cool prudence jarring atoms, And reconcile the irreconcileable— The rushing present with the mouldering past! CROMWELL. Thou say'st it, Ireton! But the boy was young And fond of heart; the times that harden us, Make soft less thoughtful natures. (_enter a Puritan Soldier_) SOLDIER. Lo! your worship, The youth hight Hubert Cecil waits thy pleasure!