will so soften down
In sweet forgetfulness of all beside,
That growing frenzied at the loss I find
E'en shipwreck'd hope were better than despair.
Here comes my friend.

_Enter MILTON slowly, L._

_Arth._ Good even, Master Milton.

_Mil._ Ha! is it thou? my poor eyes are grown dim,
Methinks, with ever gazing back upon
The glorious deeds of ages long flown by.
Welcome, dear friend--most welcome to these arms.
Nay! it is kind to seek me thus--
Thine eyes
Are bright still; yet thy cheek is furrow'd more
Than should be; thou'rt not happy--Nay, I know,
Like all true hearts that beat in English breasts,
Thine must be most unhappy in these times--

_Arth._ I am so--

_Mil._ Thou hast fought well. I have heard it--

_Arth._ From Cromwell?

_Mil._ Yes, from him--

_Arth._ It is of him
That I would speak, as well as of this cause
That we call Freedom.
I have doubts of all
That urge this cruel war--Where is the end?
I fight against a tyrant, not a king
To set a tyrant up, or what is worse,
A hundred tyrants. Think you it may be
A struggle for the power they feign to hate!

_Mil._ What have you seen to make you think so!

_Arth._ Much!
The spirit of a demon host that strives
Each for himself against the common good,
Rather than that true patriot zeal of Rome
We us'd to read of--hatred, jealousy,
With the black ferment of the hungry mob
To gain by loss of others; and the aim
Of one man, more than all, seems set upon
An elevation high, as Hell is deep;
For such, if gain'd, the fit comparison.

_Mil._ The common error of a generous mind,
To do no good, and shrink within itself,
Sick of the jostling of the wolfish throng.
Your cause is just; though devils fight for it,
Heaven with its sworded angels doth enlist them:
So works a wise and wondrous Providence.

_Arth._ Tell me, what think you then of Cromwell?
Is he
Ambitious, cruel, eager, cunning, false,
Slave to himself and master sole of others?
Is his religion but as puppet-wires,
To set a hideous idol up of self,
Like some fierce God of Ind? Or is he but
A fiery pillar leading the sure way--
Arriv'd, content to die by his own light,
As others lived upon his burning truth,
And struggled to him from surrounding darkness?

_Mil._ There is much good in him, yet not all good;
And yet believe the cause he seeks divine.
Listen! this is the worst 'twere possible
To speak of him. He is a man,
Whom Heaven hath chosen for an instrument,
Yet