Arth. Alas! ’tis but
Corruption’s gilding.  ’Tis the trick of vice
Full oft to pander in a graceful form;
But when the finer chords of hearts are set
In eyes glued to a dancer’s feet, or ears
Strain’d to the rapture of a squeaking fiddle,
Think you ’tis well?  Oh, say, should Englishmen
Arrive at this, such price to set on art,
Ne’er rivalling the untaught nightingale,
That with their ears shut to wild misery,
Deaf to starvation’s groans, the prayer of want,
The giant moan of hunger o’er the land,
Till the sky darken with the face of angels,
God’s smiling ministers, averted—­then! 
To buy a male soprano they should give
His price in gold, that peach-fed lords and dames
Might have their senses tickled with the trills
Evolv’d from a soft, tumid, warbling throat—­
Why then farewell to England and her glory!

Crom. Methinks the end of all things should be near, When that doth happen!

Arth. Did I hear aright That Milton was thy friend?

Crom. Yea! with the saints, That crowd in arm’d appeal before high Heaven To set this nation free.  He is my friend, And England’s.

Arth. I in Italy did know
That excellent man.  Full often we have sat
Upon the white and slippery marble limb
Of some great ruin’d temple, whilst all round
Was dipp’d in the warm, lustrous atmosphere
We know not here, and purple eve did glow
With shadows soft as beds of fallen roses,
And he hath spoken in clear tones until
He built up all again, and glory’s home
Grew glorious as ever.  Then his voice
Would sudden deepen into holy thought
And mournful sweet philosophy, ’till all
The air grew musical and my soul good. 
How well do I remember it. 
Yes!  Milton was
My honour’d tutor and my loving friend.

Crom. Came not his thoughts here often?—­

Arth. Latterly, He would speak much of England, and of change Political, and coming strife and battles—­

Crom. Ay! battles—­
Hast thou not a sword, young man? 
Thou should’st be friend of righteousness to know
That zealous patriot and pure-minded man,
Of whom thou spakest; surely he hath taught thee
More than mere classic lore—­wisdom and faith
To help this stricken people from the thrall
Of their idolatrous, self-seeking rulers?

Arth. Fair sir!  I know you not enough for this: 
I am a stranger to these hapless broils
Between your sovereign and some of you. 
Yet let me thank you for this worthless life—­
Worthless indeed, could I so lightly join
So grave a cause as yours.  Still deem me not
The serf of custom to uphold a wrong,
Or slave of tyrants to deny a right,
Or such a one whose brib’d and paltry soul
Aims shafts of malice at a patriot’s heart,
Hating the deed he cannot estimate: