round to choke the envious
With supernatural awe.

_2nd Gent._ I know not; but
He hath great power with the army, gain'd
By most corporeal acts.

_1st Gent._ Shall you attend
The funeral?

_2nd Gent._ It were not wise, I think;
There will be riots. It grows dark.
Good evening!

[_They part, 1st Gent. R., 2nd Gent. L., Exeunt._]

_The stage grows dark. Enter a Drunken Preacher
with a Rabble of Soldiers, Artisans, and Women,
U.E.L. and R._

_Preach._ So, my beloved, this Ahab has lost his
head, as it might be the froth of thin ale. I am
thirsty in the flesh! Will no man be a surety for
a poor preacher of the Lord at the sign of Balaam's
Ass? 'Tis hard by; and I would speak a few more
words of grace on this soul-stirring occasion, but my
tongue is parched. Ho! every one that thirsteth,
come unto me,--or I will go with you.

_A Soldier._ Hold thy peace; for I would fain speak.
This is a great day in Israel.

_Preach._ Hear me, my brethren! This is a false prophet.

_Sold._ Smite him!

_Woman._ Nay, touch him an' you dare. [_To the
Soldier._] 'Tis Master Ephraim Bumling. I would
thy head were chopped off, like the sour-faced king's
this morning.

_1st Art._ Down with all kings!

_2nd Art._ No taxes!

_3rd Art._ We'll all be kings!

_4th Art._ With our heads on, though.

_1st Art._ Cease quarrelling, and come and play at skittles.

_2nd Art._ With the king's head for a ball?

_A Woman._ Ay, he was a bad man to his wife,
and deserved to die.

_3rd Art._ And a pagan Turk.

_2nd Art._ That would have made all us Christians deny pork.

_3rd Art._ And built ships with our houses.

_2nd Art._ Well, it's a rare sight to see a king die.
A bishop is something; but a king is a treat for a poor man's holiday.

_1st Art._ But we shall not be poor now.

_All._ Down with all kings! Live Cromwell! live
the Parliament, live Fairfax, live everybody!

[_Exeunt severally._]

_Stage dark. The moon shines brilliantly upon the abbey._

_Enter CROMWELL, cloaked, U.E.R._

_Crom._ This night the place looks older than it is,
As if some future centuries had pass'd,
Leaving their shadows on it--
Yon tall towers,
That pierce the unsettled sky,
Seem not to point unto the stars that watch
My coming greatness; but with solemn air
To frown back on the memory of Cromwell--
Yon dark cathedral, whose sharp turret spires
Look like funereal firs on Ararat,
When the sun setting str