not so sanctified, to such high use,
That all the evil factions of the heart,
Ambition, worldly pride, suspicion, wrath,
Are dead within him--and thus, mark you how
Wisdom doth shine in this, more than if pure,
With unavailing; excellent tears and woe,
He pray'd afar in dim and grottoed haunt
To quench the kingdom's foul iniquities--
An interceding angel had not done it
So well as this fierce superstitious man.

_Arth._ But if the king be prisoner and were slain?

_Mil._ I trust not that; yet kings are not divine--

_Arth._ Nor churches, temples, still ye would not rend
The altar vow'd to Heaven.

_Mil._ No, but purge
The living fire upon it, when the name
Is brutish and discolour'd.--When kings fail,
Let's bastardize the craven to his breed,
And hurl him recreant down!

_Arth._ But not destroy--

_Mil._ 'Twould heal the sight of millions yet unborn.

_Arth._ In this I am not with you; yet I grant
So far 'tis well. I trust a different end.
The king, that hath much noble feeling in him,
Will yield; and then we will give back again
His just prerogative--

_Mil._ It may be so.
Where is the high-soul'd Stratford?--The same weakness
That yielded there is obstinacy now,
To the last drop of the pride-tainted blood
That through the melancholy Stuart's veins
Doth creep and curdle--

_Arth._ You do make me sad--

_Mil._ Nay, there is sadness in the noble task
Appointed us. An hour past came Cromwell here
As full of sorrow for the king; as thou--
Hating the sour and surly Presbyter
And bitter wrath of the fierce Parliament.
He parted from me in an angry mood
Because I coldly met his warm desire
That Charles might reign again--

_Arth._ Indeed! Is't so?

_Enter a Servant to MILTON, R._

_Serv._ There is a messenger would see you, sir!

_Mil._ I will be back anon, pray rest awhile.

[_Goes out, R. Servant follows MILTON._]

_Arth._ He should be right, that is so wise and good,
Living like some angelic visitant,
Dismay'd not from his purpose and great aim
By all the fierce and angry discord round.
So one in sober mood and pale high thought
Stands in a door-way, whence he sees within
The riot warm of wassailing, and hears
All the dwarf Babel of their common talk,
As each small drunken mind floats to the top
And general surface of the senseless din;
Whilst every tuneless knave doth rend the soul
Of harmony, the more he hath refus'd
To sing; ere Bacchus set him by the ears
With co