Crom. O, I could weep! and yet his death Had the best reason for’t.  Whence comest thou, sir?

Arth. I am but late returned unto this land.

[Re-enter WILLIAM.]

Will. Yes! yes, from Italy, Rome, gracious sir!  Us’d to these things, you see—­

Crom. Peace, knave, thou scoffest!  Revilest thou; because a fellow-sinner’s dead?  Shame be upon thee!

Will. [Aside.] If I should be impertinent to him, ’twill be behind his back.  He hath a quelling eye; although a man fear not.  Now, amidst other brave men with swords, he would be as one that carried sword, and petronel to boot.

Crom. [To Arthur.] I fain would hear from thee, young sir,
More of the land from whence thou comest.  ’Tis
My hap, I thank God’s holy will, to stay
In this my country, lifting now her head
From the curst yoke of proud Idolatry,
Lately so vexing her, I thought to leave,
A little while ago, her shores for ever,
Unto the new Jerusalem, beyond
The western ocean, where there are no kings,
False worship, or oppression—­but, no more. 
What say’st thou of this Italy?  John Milton
Loves well to speak romantic lore of Rome—­
A poet, though a great and burning light. 
I would have knowledge of it to confound him;
A sober joke, a piece of harmless mirth. 
What think’st thou then of Rome where Brutus liv’d?

Arth. ’Tis the decay of a once splendid harlot,
Painting her ruin, that the enthusiast eye
Lives on the recollection still, and thus
The alms of passers by still meet her cravings. 
She stands, her scarr’d proud features mock’d with rags,
Fixt at the end of a great thoroughfare,
With shrill gesticulation, fawning ways,
Clinging unto the traveller to sustain
Her living foul decay, and death in life,
She is the ghoul of cities; for she feeds
Upon the corpse of her own buried greatness.

Crom. Doubtless thou hast seen much to fill thy mind With such disgust.

Arth. Good, sir!  I did scarce feel it, Till I return’d.

Will. Nay, sir!  I do remember as we stood in the mouldy big Circus, having sundry of the lousy population idling within, whereby I did then liken it to a venerable cheese, in which is some faint stir of maggotry, that thou didst make a memorable speech against the land, where the only vocation of a nobleman is to defile the streets and be pimp to his own wife.

Arth. Cease, cease, yet there is truth in what he says.

Crom. Yet are there not amends in poetry,
Art, science, and a thousand delicate thoughts
Glowing on canvass, chisell’d in cold forms,
The marbled dreams of sculptor’s classic brain? 
Milton hath told of these.