of gain put him in action, and the
devil inside shall jump out, like an ape stirred up to
malice. He affects, too, a vulgar frankness, which is
often the mask of selfishness, as a man who helps
himself first at table with a "ha! ha!" in a facetious
manner, a jocose greediness, which is most actual,
real earnest within.

_Arth._ Alas! If this be true, what chance have
I? for such a one as thou describest would call charity
herself a cheat, and deem the emotion of an angel
morbid generosity.

_Will._ Bless you, he hath reasons! he would refuse
tenpence to a starving wretch, because he owed ten
pounds to his shoemaker, though he had ten thousand
in his coffers at home. Yet would he still owe the
ten pounds.

_Arth._ Nay, cease! I love not to hear it.

_Will._ And yet so meanly would he adopt appearances
in the world's eye, that should he have to cross
a muddy street where a beggar kept a passage clear
with his besom, lest the gallants should soil their
bravery, he would time his crossing, till one driven,
or on horseback, should be near, that he might pass
hurriedly on without giving him a groat, as in fear
of being o'erridden. Like Judas--

_Arth._ Cease! cease! I bid thee cease!

_Will._ Thy cousin is very beautiful and gentle.

_Arth._ I will but see her, then my sword must carve
my fortunes. Did she speak kindly of me? Alas! I
need some welcoming. Go seek her. It is time.

[_Exit WILLIAM, R._]

O sweet hour!
In yonder heaven deep the stars are lit
For evening service of seraphic quires--
Eternal pomp of serried, blazing worlds,
The heraldry of God, ere yet Time was.
The moon hangs low, her golden orb impearl'd
In a sweet iris of delicious light,
That leaves the eye in doubt, as swelling die
Round trills of music on the raptur'd ear,
Where it doth fade in blue, or softly quicken.
How, through each glade, her soft and hallowing ray
Stole like a maiden tiptoe, o'er the ground,
Till every tiny blade of glittering grass
Was doubled by its shadow.
Can it be,
That evil hearts throb near a scene like this?
And yet how soon comes the Medusa, Thought,
To chill the heart's blood of sweet fantasy!
For, O bright orb!
That glid'st along the fringe of those tall trees,
Where a child's thought might grasp thee,
Art thou not
This night in thousand places hideous? To think
Where thy pale beams _may_ revel--on the brow
Of ghastly wanderers, with the frozen breast
And grating laugh, in murder'