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 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.