A Soldier. Hold thy peace; for I would fain speak.  This is a great day in Israel.

Preach. Hear me, my brethren!  This is a false prophet.

Sold. Smite him!

Woman. Nay, touch him an’ you dare. [To the Soldier.] ’Tis Master Ephraim Bumling.  I would thy head were chopped off, like the sour-faced king’s this morning.

1st Art. Down with all kings!

2nd Art. No taxes!

3rd Art. We’ll all be kings!

4th Art. With our heads on, though.

1st Art. Cease quarrelling, and come and play at skittles.

2nd Art. With the king’s head for a ball?

A Woman. Ay, he was a bad man to his wife, and deserved to die.

3rd Art. And a pagan Turk.

2nd Art. That would have made all us Christians deny pork.

3rd Art. And built ships with our houses.

2nd Art. Well, it’s a rare sight to see a king die.  A bishop is something; but a king is a treat for a poor man’s holiday.

1st Art. But we shall not be poor now.

All. Down with all kings!  Live Cromwell! live the Parliament, live Fairfax, live everybody!

[Exeunt severally.]

Stage dark.  The moon shines brilliantly upon the abbey.

Enter CROMWELL, cloaked, U.E.R.

Crom. This night the place looks older than it is,
As if some future centuries had pass’d,
Leaving their shadows on it—­
Yon tall towers,
That pierce the unsettled sky,
Seem not to point unto the stars that watch
My coming greatness; but with solemn air
To frown back on the memory of Cromwell—­
Yon dark cathedral, whose sharp turret spires
Look like funereal firs on Ararat,
When the sun setting stream’d in blood upon
The fast decaying waters—­that huge pile
Of gloomy worship to the God of ages,
Feels like this age’s tomb and monument. 
Would I were buried in it, so I might
Sleep there—­for O, I cannot sleep to-night. 
My molten blood runs singing through my veins. 
It is no wonder:  I have known less things
Disturb my rest; besides, there is a thought
Hath led me forth—­Come, let me deal with it.

’Tis midnight!  Now to face him were a deed,
To feel that one had done it—­not to tell. 
To fold the arms and look upon the work
That I have wrought with stedfast, iron will—­
There’s evil fascination in the thought: 
Grows to desire! 
I cannot stay my feet! 
Like one in dreams, or hurried by a storm,
That hales him on with wild uncertain steps,
I move on to the thing I dread.
[Sighs deeply.]
Methought
A voice stole on mine ears—­as if a sword
[Sighs again.]
Clove the oppressive air.  Why do I shrink? 
On Naseby field my bare head tower’d high;