Crom. Why then stand there, till we come back again.  ’Tis time to part—­Come, Ludlow!

Arth. Hath he not
Virtues that might rebuke us all?—­ay, virtues
More excellent in him than all his subjects, since
All Sin doth aim at Kings, to be her own. 
’Tis hard for princes to outshine in worth
The meanest wretch that from his road-side hovel
Shouts forth with hungry voice, “Long live the King!”

Crom. O wise and excellent argument, that
There should be no more kings. 
Why spoil a man
That hath a soul, a precious soul, to lose,
To make a king that cannot help but sin? 
Let there be no more kings.

Arth. Then kill not Charles, For Charles the Second, reigns in England then.

Crom. Hum, perchance—­

Arth. He hath done us no offence,
Ye would not slay him, if ye had him here. 
I tell ye, banish Charles, this present man,
And none shall question, whilst his feeble race
And name shall dwindle hence, as shall arise
The fair proportions of our Commonwealth
On the decay of kings, not on the death
Of one weak monarch.—­
What! doth any here
Wish that himself be king?

Crom. He raves!

Vane. Nay! listen!  He hath much reason.

Crom. [Throws a cushion at Ludlow.] Ho! there regicide!  Have at thee! [Confusion.]

Arth. [ Vainly attempts to speak.] Gentlemen, I say then—­Hear!

[MILTON and others commence leaving.  LUDLOW pursues CROMWELL, who finally runs down stairs, pursued by the former.]

Arth. [To Milton.] Nay! nay! my friend.

Milt. Another time.  This is not seemly.

Har. Surely, doth the Lord Need us elsewhere.  Who holdeth forth below?

[They all go but Arthur.]

Re-enter CROMWELL from the stairs.

Crom. I do protest that I am out of breath—­ Yet I commend thy reasoning.

Arth. But, my Lord.—­

Crom. That rascal, Ludlow!

Arth. Will the trial be?

Crom. ’Twould justify us much.

Arth. But if he die—­

Crom. [In a hurried tone and walking off.]
It is not thy affair, or mine—­Why now—­
Let’s talk anon, I’m tir’d.  Hast thou seen
My daughter Frances?—­fares she well to-day? 
Give me thine arm—­I do admire thy reasons. 
You see, these angry fanatics boil over;
’Twill simmer down anon—­The king must live. 
And yet he hath done much—­wrought evil work,
And so—­

[Exeunt.  CROMWELL leaning on his arm and talking rapidly.]

END OF ACT III.

ACT IV

SCENE I.

[2nd Grooves.]