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 common sense, his dull and morning guide;
And stutterers speak fast, and quick men stutter,
And gleams of fitful mirth shine on the brow
Of moody souls, and careless gay men look
Fierce melodrama on their friends around;
While talk obscene and loyalty mark all;
Then good or bad emotions meet the eye,
Like a mosaic floor, whose black and white
Glistens more keenly, moisten’d by the stain
Of liquor widely spilt.

Re-enter Servant, R.

Serv. Sir! will you enter?  ’Tis Master Andrew Marvel that is here.

[Exeunt, R.]