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’s rolling eye,
On death, corruption, on the hoary tomb,
Or the fresh earth-mould of a new-made grave,
On gaping wounds, on strife,—­the pantomime
Of lying lips, and pale, deceitful faces—­
Ay! searching every scene of rank pollution,
In each foul corner busy as at play,
With new horror gilding vice, disease, decay,
Boast not, pale moon! to me thy harlot ray!

[Enter WILLIAM, R.]

Will. Sir, they come!  Your collar is unfasten’d and your hair disorder’d.  Let me—­[Attempts to adjust AUTHUR’S dress.]

Arth. Heed it not!  I thought you knew me better.

Will. Just a moment.—­

Arth. No! yet will I meet her softly. 
She is the only creature of her sex,
For whom I feel some kindness; ’tis because
I knew her ere I knew the world beside,
And all the lie of passion, that is nurs’d
For long in early blighted hearts alone,
Whom rank possession of the thing they pin’d for,
Had cured in one short month.—­Well, I’ll be kind,
Nay more, affectionate—­