artless!

_Flor._ Certainly,
A heart is troublesome; it oft makes fools
Of those that own it--
I should hate a man
Made me ridiculous.

_Arth._ Farewell!

_Flor._ Farewell!

[_FLORENCE runs to the LADY ELIZABETH._]

_Arth._ [_Joining the group._] What is the matter?

_One of the Domestics._ Sir, the king is sentenc'd
To death; it is too much for her--

_Arth._ Alas!
Is it even so?--

_Flor._ [_To Arthur._] Arthur! here, lend your aid
To bear her hence--Elizabeth! 'Tis Florence--

[_He attempts to raise her._]

_Eliz._ I tell you I can stand--
His arm? [_Aside._]
Away! [_Aloud._]
Sir, do not touch me, you ill-treat my friend!

_Flor._ To think she heard, my folly--
Sir, I fancy [_To Arthur._]
She will be better, if you are not here--

[_He bows and is about to retire._]

_Enter CROMWELL and PEARSON followed by two or
three officers._

_Crom._ Where be ye all?--
[_To an Officer._] These to your Colonel Pride--
[_Exit officer, L._]
And thou to Rich; tell him to watch and fast,
[_To another._]
For I have need of him--[_Exit officer, L._]
What coil is this?--[_To his Family._]
My daughter ill! send a physician, quick:
Pearson, look to it--
I am ill myself.
'Twas a sore trial, ye have heard of it--
The man must die--

_Eliz._ No! father, as you hope
For mercy, no!

_Crom._ Peace, simpleton. It was
The voice of all this people.

_Arth._ General, hear me:
Thou hadst the power to save--

_Crom._ Ay! Master Walton,
Thou thinkest so?--

_Arth._ I do!--

_Crom._ And dar'st to speak it?

_Arth._ Dare! General Cromwell! [_Takes off his sword._]
Here, look, is my sword,
I'll never more bear arms with thee or thine.

_Crom._ I do protest thou wilt not--
Take his sword; [_To an Officer._]
I did not think to find this kite so tame.
Good, honest Master Walton, tell me now
What news from Langley, virtuous Master Walton?
Nay, never look with that blank wonderment,
Friend Arthur Walton--
[_ARTH. attempts to speak._] Tush, sir, not a word--
As the Lord liveth, thou shalt die the death--
Take him away. I hate his open brow
More than a dozen dark-fac'd royalists
In arms against us.

_Arth._ What doth this mean?--
Frenzy
Hath surely seized him--

_Crom._ No! the sense
To know thee, hypocrite!

_Flor._ O Arthur! Arthur!
What has he done? [_Rushes to his arms._]
Forgive me, dearest Arthur!
Sir, he's not guilty-- [_To Cromwell._]

_Crom._ Silence, woman! Ta